One way The calligraphic inscription “First Gate to the North Country” adorns the traditional Chinese cinnabar-colored arch with gold tiles on the roof. On the arch there is a sign with the following inscription: “After the Russian side opened its part of the zone

He speaks only on practical topics, without jokes, jokes, or smiles. If he smiles, it will certainly be ironic, pulling the corners of his mouth down.

He occupies a modest position in exile: he peddles perfumes and herrings. Perfume smells like herrings, and herrings smell like perfume.

Trading poorly. Convinces unconvincingly:

Are the perfumes bad? It's so cheap. For this very perfume in the store you will pay sixty francs, but I have nine. But they smell bad, so you sniff it quickly. And this is not what a person gets used to.

What? Does herring smell like cologne? It doesn't harm her taste. Not much. The Germans say they eat such cheese that it smells like a dead person. Nothing. They are not offended. Will you feel nauseous? I don't know, no one complained. No one died from nausea either. Nobody complained that they were dying.

He's grey, with red eyebrows. Red and moving. He loved to talk about his life. I understand that his life is an example of meaningful and correct actions. As he talks, he teaches and at the same time shows distrust of your intelligence and sensitivity.

Our surname is Vuryugin. Not Voryugin, as many allow themselves to joke, but Vuryugin, from a completely unknown root. We lived in Taganrog. They lived in such a way that no Frenchman, even in his imagination, could have such a life. Six horses, two cows. Vegetable garden, land. My father ran a shop. What? Yes, everything happened. If you want a brick, get a brick. If you want vegetable oil, have some oil. If you want a sheepskin coat, get a sheepskin coat. There was even a ready-made dress. Yes, what! It’s not like here - I’ve been vilified for a year, everything will become shiny. We had such materials as we never dreamed of here. Strong, with pile. And the styles are clever, wide, any artist can wear them - he can’t go wrong. Fashionable. Here, when it comes to fashion, I must say, they are rather weak. We put out brown leather boots in the summer. Ahah! in all the stores, ah-ah, latest fashion. Well, I walk around, look, but just shake my head. I wore boots just like these twenty years ago in Taganrog. Look when. Twenty years ago, and fashion has only just arrived here. Fashionistas, nothing to say.

And how do the ladies dress? Did we really wear such cakes on our heads? Yes, we would be ashamed to go out in front of people with such a flatbread. We dressed fashionably, chicly. But here they have no idea about fashion.

They're bored. It's terribly boring. Metro and cinema. In Taganrog, would we wander around the metro like that? Several hundred thousand travel on the Paris metro every day. And you will assure me that they are all traveling on business? Well, you know, as they say, lie, but don’t lie. Three hundred thousand people a day, and all to the point! Where are these things of theirs? How do they show themselves? In trade? Trade, excuse me, is stagnant. The work is also, excuse me, stagnant. So where, one wonders, are the things that make three hundred thousand people rush around the subway day and night, their eyes wide open? I’m surprised, in awe, but I don’t believe it.

In a foreign land, of course, it’s hard and you don’t understand much. Especially for a lonely person. Of course, you work during the day, but in the evenings you just go wild. Sometimes you go to the sink in the evening, look at yourself in the mirror and say to yourself:

“Vuryugin, Vuryugin! Are you a hero and a handsome man? Are you a trading house? And are you six horses, and are you two cows? Your life is lonely, and you have withered like a flower without a root.”

And now I have to tell you that I decided to somehow fall in love. As they say, it’s decided and signed. And there lived on our stairs in our Trezor hotel a young lady, very sweet and even, between us, pretty. Widow. And she had a five-year-old boy, a nice one. He was a very nice boy.

Wow, the lady made a little money by sewing, so she didn’t complain too much. And you know - our refugees - you invite her to drink tea, and she, like a thin accountant, just counts and recalculates everything: “Oh, they didn’t pay fifty there, but here they didn’t pay sixty, and the room is two hundred a month, and the metro costs three francs.” in a day". They count and subtract - the melancholy takes over. With a lady, it’s interesting that she says something nice about you, and not about her scores. Well, this lady was special. Everyone hums something, although she is not frivolous, but, as they say, with demands, with an approach to life. She saw that I had a button hanging by a thread on my coat, and immediately, without saying a word, she brought a needle and sewed it on.

Well, you know, further - more. I decided to fall in love. And a nice boy. I like to take everything seriously. And especially in a case like this. You need to be able to reason. I had no trifles in my head, but a legal marriage. He asked, among other things, if she had her own teeth. Even though she’s young, anything can happen. There was one teacher in Taganrog. She was also young, and then it turned out that she had a false eye.

Well, that means I’m taking a closer look at my lady and I’ve really weighed everything.

You can get married. And then one unexpected circumstance opened my eyes that I, as a decent and conscientious person, I will say more - a noble person, cannot marry her. Just think about it? - such an insignificant, seemingly insignificant incident, but it turned my whole life upside down.

And this is how it happened. We were sitting with her one evening, very cozy, remembering what kind of soups they had in Russia. They counted fourteen, but forgot about the peas. Well, it became funny. That is, of course she laughed, I don’t like to laugh. I was rather annoyed by the memory defect. So, we are sitting, remembering our former power, and the boy is right there.

Give me, - he says, - maman, caramel.

And she answers:

You can't do more, you've already eaten three.

And he whines - give it, give it.

And I say, nobly joking:

Come here, I'll spank you.

And she tell me the fatal point:

Well, where are you! You are a soft person, you won’t be able to spank him.

And then an abyss opened up at my feet.

Given my character, it is absolutely impossible to take on the upbringing of a baby at just the age when their brother is supposed to be torn. I can't take it upon myself. Will I ever get over it? No, I can't stand it. I don't know how to fight. And what? To destroy a child, the son of a beloved woman.

Excuse me, I say, Anna Pavlovna. Sorry, but our marriage is a utopia in which we will all drown. Because I cannot be your son’s real father and educator. Not only that, but I can’t rip it out even once.

I spoke very restrainedly, and not a single fiber on my face twitched. Perhaps the voice was slightly suppressed, but I can vouch for the fiber.

She, of course, - ah! Oh! Love and all that, and there’s no need to tear the boy down, he’s good enough anyway.

Good, I say, good, but it will be bad. And please don't insist. Be firm. Remember that I can't fight. You shouldn't play with your son's future.

Well, she, of course, the woman, of course, shouted that I was a fool. But the matter ended up falling apart, and I don’t regret it. I acted nobly and, for the sake of my own blindness of passion, did not sacrifice the young body of a child.

I pulled myself together completely. I gave her a day or two to calm down and came to explain sensibly.

Well, of course, a woman cannot perceive it. Charged "fool yes fool." Completely unfounded.

And so the story ended. And I can say - I’m proud. I forgot quite quickly, because I consider all sorts of memories unnecessary. For what? Should I pawn them at a pawnshop?

Well, after thinking about the situation, I decided to get married. Just not in Russian, sir. You must be able to reason. Where do we live? I ask you directly - where? In France. And since we live in France, that means we need to marry a French woman. I started looking.

I have a French friend here. Musyu Emelyan. Not exactly French, but he’s lived here for a long time and knows all the rules.

Well, this guy introduced me to one young lady. He works at the post office. Nice one. Just, you know, I look, and she has a very pretty figure. Thin, long. And the dress fits like a glove.

“Hey, I think it’s rubbish!”

No, I say, this one doesn’t suit me. I like it, there are no words, but you have to be able to reason. Such a thin, foldable girl can always buy herself a cheap dress - for seventy-five francs. But I bought a dress - but here you can’t hold it at home with your teeth. He will go dancing. Is this good? Am I getting married so that my wife can dance? No, I say, find me a model from another edition. More tightly. - And you can imagine - she was quickly found. It’s a small model, but it’s kind of, you know, a small tamper, and, as they say, you can’t buy back fat. But, in general, wow and also an employee. Don't think it's some kind of sledgehammer. No, she has curls and curls, and everything, just like the skinny ones. Only, of course, ready-made dress can't get it for her.

Having discussed and thought about all this, it means that I opened up to her, as I should, and marched to the mayor's office1.

And about a month later she asked for a new dress. I asked for a new dress, and I very willingly say:

Of course, will you buy something ready-made?

Here she blushed slightly and answered casually:

I don't like ready-made ones. They don't fit well. It’s better to buy me some blue material and let’s have it sewn.

I kiss her very willingly and go shopping. It’s like I’m buying the wrong color by mistake. It looks like dun, like horses are.

She was a little confused, but thanked her. It’s impossible - the first gift is easy to push away. He also understands his line.

And I am very happy about everything and recommend the Russian dressmaker to her. I knew her for a long time. She tore more expensively than a French woman, and she sewed so hard that you can't help but spit and whistle. I sewed a collar onto one client’s sleeve, and even argued about it. Well, this same couture sewed a dress for my lady. Well, you don’t need to go straight to the theater, it’s so funny! A dun chick, and that’s all. She, poor thing, tried to cry, and redid it, and repainted it - nothing helped. So the dress hangs on a nail, and the wife sits at home. She is French, she understands that you can’t make dresses every month. Well, we live a quiet family life. And very pleased. And why? But because you need to be able to reason.

Taught her how to cook cabbage rolls.

Happiness also does not come into your own hands. You need to know how to tackle it.

And everyone, of course, would like to, but not everyone can.

Virtuoso of feelings

The most interesting thing about this man is his posture.

He is tall, thin, and has a bare eagle head on his outstretched neck. He walks in the crowd with his elbows apart, swaying slightly at the waist and looking around proudly. And since at the same time he is usually taller than everyone else, it seems as if he is sitting astride a horse.

He lives in exile on some "crumbs", but, in general, not bad and neat. He rents a room with the right to use the salon and kitchen and loves to prepare his own special stewed pasta, which greatly captures the imagination of the women he loves.

His last name is Gutbrecht.

Lizochka met him at a banquet in favor of “cultural beginnings and continuations.”

He apparently mapped it out even before he was seated. She clearly saw how he, having galloped past her three times on an invisible horse, gave spurs and galloped to the manager and explained something to him, pointing at her, Lizochka. Then both of them, the rider and the manager, spent a long time looking at the tickets with their names laid out on plates, made some wise decisions, and in the end Lizochka turned out to be Gutbrecht’s neighbor.

Gutbrecht immediately, as they say, took the bull by the horns, that is, he squeezed Liza’s hand near the elbow and said to her with a quiet reproach:

Expensive! Well, why? Well, why not?

At the same time, his eyes became clouded underneath with a rooster film, so that Lizochka even got scared. But there was nothing to be afraid of. This technique, known to Gutbrecht as “number five” (“I work as number five”), was simply called “rotten eyes” among his friends.

Look! Gut has already used his rotten eyes!

He, however, instantly released Liza’s hand and said in the calm tone of a secular man:

We will start, of course, with herring.

And suddenly he turned his rotten eyes again and whispered in a voluptuous whisper:

God, how good she is!

And Lizochka didn’t understand who this was referring to - her or the herring, and she couldn’t eat from embarrassment.

Then the conversation began.

When we go to Capri, I will show you an amazing dog cave.

Lizochka was trembling. Why should she go to Capri with him? How amazing this gentleman is!

A tall plump lady of the caryatid type sat diagonally from her. Beautiful, majestic.

To divert the conversation away from the dog cave, Lizochka praised the lady:

Really, how interesting?

Gutbrecht turned his bare head contemptuously, turned away just as contemptuously and said:

Wow little face.

This “little face” so surprisingly did not fit the lady’s majestic profile that Lizochka even laughed.

He pursed his lips into a bow and suddenly blinked like an offended child. He called it “doing a little thing.”

Babe! You're laughing at Vovochka!

Which Vovochka? - Lizochka was surprised.

Above me! I'm Vovochka! - the eagle's head pouted, pouting.

How strange you are! - Lizochka was surprised. - You’re old, but you act gentle like a little one.

I am fifty years old! - Gutbrecht said sternly and blushed. He was offended.

Well, yes, that's what I'm saying, you're old! - Lizochka was sincerely perplexed.

Gutbrecht was also perplexed. He'd taken six years off himself and thought "fifty" sounded very young.

“Darling,” he said and suddenly switched to “you.” - Darling, you are deeply provincial. If I had more time, I would work on your development.

Why are you suddenly talking... - Lizochka tried to be indignant.

But he interrupted her:

Be quiet. Nobody can hear us.

And he added in a whisper:

I myself will protect you from slander.

“I wish this lunch would end soon!” - thought Lizochka.

But then some speaker spoke, and Gutbrecht fell silent.

I live a strange but deep life! - he said when the speaker fell silent. - I devoted myself to the psychoanalysis of female love. It is difficult and painstaking. I carry out experiments, classify, draw conclusions. Lots of unexpected and interesting things. Of course, you know Anna Petrovna? The wife of our famous figure?

Of course, I know,” answered Lizochka. - A very respectable lady.

Gutbrecht grinned and, spreading his elbows, pranced in place.

So this most respectable lady is such a devil! Devilish temperament. The other day she came to see me on business. I handed her business papers and suddenly, without letting her come to her senses, I grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed my lips to hers. And if you only knew what happened to her! She almost lost consciousness! Completely unconscious, she gave me a smack and ran out of the room. The next day I had to go see her on business. She didn't accept me. You understand? She doesn't vouch for herself. You cannot imagine how interesting such psychological experiments are. I'm not Don Juan. No. I'm thinner! More spiritual. I am a virtuoso of feelings! Do you know Vera Ax? This proud, cold beauty?

Of course I know. I saw it.

So. Recently I decided to wake up this marble Galatea! The opportunity soon presented itself, and I achieved my goal.

Yes you! - Lizochka was surprised. - Really? So why are you talking about this? Is it possible to tell!

I have no secrets from you. I wasn’t interested in her even for a single minute. It was a cold and cruel experiment. But it's so interesting that I want to tell you everything. There should be no secrets between us. So here it is. It was in the evening, at her house. I was invited to dinner for the first time. There was, among others, this big guy Stok or Strock, something like that. They also said about him that he had an affair with Vera Ax. Well, yes, this is gossip based on nothing. She is cold as ice and has only awakened to life for one moment. I want to tell you about this moment. So, after dinner (there were about six of us, all, apparently, her close friends) we went into the darkened living room. Of course, I’m next to Vera on the sofa. The conversation is general and uninteresting. Faith is cold and inaccessible. She is wearing an evening dress with a huge cutout at the back. And so I, without stopping small talk, quietly but imperiously extend my hand and quickly slap her several times on her bare back. If you only knew what happened to my Galatea! How suddenly this cold marble came to life! Indeed, just think: a person is in the house for the first time, in the salon of a decent and cold lady, in the company of her friends, and suddenly, not to say a bad word, that is, I want to say completely unexpectedly, such an intimate gesture. She jumped up like a tigress. She didn't remember herself. A woman woke up inside her, probably for the first time in her life. She squealed and with a quick movement threw a plop at me. I don’t know what would have happened if we were alone! What would the animated marble of her body be capable of? She was rescued by that vile fellow Stoke. Line. He shouted:

“Young man, you are an old man, but you behave like a boy,” and he kicked me out of the house.

We haven't met since then. But I know that she will never forget this moment. And I know that she will avoid meeting me. Poor thing! But have you become quiet, my dear girl? Are you afraid of me. Don't be afraid of Vovochka!

He made a “little boy”, pursing his lips into a bow and blinking his eyes.

Little Vovochka.

Stop it,” Lizochka said irritably. - They're looking at us.

Does it matter if we love each other? Ah, women, women. You are all on the same page. You know what Turgenev said, that is, Dostoevsky is a famous playwright and expert. "A woman needs to be surprised." Oh how true that is. My last novel... I surprised her. I threw money around like Croesus and was meek like Madonna. I sent her a decent bouquet of carnations. Then a huge box of chocolates. One and a half pounds, with a bow. And so, when she, intoxicated with her power, was already preparing to look at me as a slave, I suddenly stopped pursuing her. Do you understand? How it immediately hit her nerves. All this madness, flowers, candy, the project has an evening at the Paramount cinema and suddenly - stop. I wait a day or two. And suddenly a call. I knew it. She. A pale, trembling woman comes in... “I’ll be just a minute.” I take her face with both palms and say authoritatively, but still - out of delicacy - interrogatively: “Mine?”

She pulled me away...

And threw a splash? - Lizochka asked busily.

N-not really. She quickly regained control of herself. As an experienced woman, she realized that suffering awaited her. She pulled back and with pale lips stammered: “Please give me two hundred and forty-eight francs until Tuesday.”

So what? - asked Lizochka.

Well, nothing.

And then?

She took the money and left. I never saw her again.

And you didn’t give it away?

What a child you are! After all, she took the money to somehow justify her visit to me. But she controlled herself and immediately broke this fiery thread that stretched between us. And I completely understand why she avoids the meeting. After all, there is a limit to her strength. Behold, my dear child, what dark abysses of voluptuousness I have opened before your frightened eyes. What an amazing woman! What an exceptional impulse!

Lizochka thought about it.

Yes, of course,” she said. - In my opinion, you’d be better off with a splash. More practical. A?

..................................................
Copyright: Nadezhda Teffi

We recently devoted an essay to the very colorful figure of A.V. Rumanov.

About 30 years ago he “shocked” the St. Petersburg salons with the “filigree Christ.”

Later, in the same salons, Rumanov dropped in his soft, rumbling almost baritone:

Teffi is meek... She is meek, - Teffi...

And he said to her:

Teffi, you are meek.

In the northern skies of the Neva capital, the star of a talented poetess, feuilletonist and - now this will be a revelation for many - the author of charming, gentle and completely original songs was already shining.

Teffi herself performed them in a small but pleasant voice to the accompaniment of her own guitar.

That’s how you see her - Teffi...

Wrapped in a warm, fur-trimmed robe, her legs comfortably crossed, she sits with a guitar on her lap in a deep chair by the fireplace, casting warm, quivering reflections...

Smart gray cat eyes look without blinking into the roaring flame of the fireplace and the guitar rings:

Gnawing angry cats

U evil people in hearts

My feet are dancing

With red heels...

Teffi loved red shoes.

It has already been published. They talked about her. They were looking for her cooperation.

Rumanov again, with his beaver haircut.

On the Caucasian mineral waters, he created a large resort newspaper and attracted the best St. Petersburg “forces”.

One of the first visits is to her, “meek Teffi.”

I invite you to Essentuki for two or three months. How many?

And without waiting for an answer, Rumanov somehow quietly and deftly fanned out several new credit cards with portraits of Catherine the Great on the table.

This is an advance!..

Take him away! I love rainbows in the sky, not on my desk - came the answer.

Rumanov was not at a loss. Like a magician, he instantly pulled out a heavy suede bag from somewhere and poured a ringing, sparkling stream of gold coins onto the table.

Nadezhda Alexandrovna thoughtfully poured these coins through her fingers, like a child playing with sand.

A few days later she left for Essentuki and there immediately increased the circulation of the resort newspaper.

It was a long time ago, a very long time ago, but it was still...

Time makes its mark, they say.

Both time and the press are extremely lenient towards Teffi. Here in Paris she is almost the same as she was with a guitar by the fireplace in red shoes and a fur-trimmed robe.

And the smart eyes with a cat's gray yellowness and a cat's frame are exactly the same.

We talk about current politics:

What can you say, Nadezhda Aleksandrovna, about the “League of Nations”, about its acceptance into its fold Soviet Russia, or rather the Soviet government?

First a smile, then two dimples near the corners of the mouth. Long-familiar dimples that resurrected St. Petersburg...

What can I say? I'm not a politician, but a comedian. There is only one thing: Everyone’s attitude towards the “League of Nations” is painfully ironic, and therefore, what is the price of whether it recognizes someone or not. And, really, nothing has changed and will not change because she adorned Litvinov’s bald spot with her laurels from his, Litvinov’s, not quite “Roman profile.” A farce, albeit a tragicomic one, but still a farce...

Having finished with the League of Nations and Litvinov, we move on to the amnesty announced by the Bolsheviks.

Is it really announced by them? - Teffi doubted? - The Bolsheviks, at least, remain silent on this subject. It seems to me that this amnesty is like a mirage in the desert. Yes, yes, the distrustful, exhausted emigration, perhaps, itself invented this amnesty and is clutching at it... Muslims say: “a drowning person is ready to grab hold of a snake.”

What can you say about modern Germany?

But I’ll tell you what: I had a story called “The Demonic Woman.” He got lucky. A collection of my things under this general title was published in Poland. On German“The Demonic Woman” was also published. And then I find out: some cheeky young German took this story and put it under his own own name. I’m used to being reprinted without a fee, but I’m not used to having someone else’s name put under my stories. Friends advised calling the young, promising plagiarist to order. They advised me to contact prof. Luther... It seems that at the University of Leipzig he occupies a chair... A chair - now I’ll tell you what. Yes, Slavic literature. I wrote to him more in order to reassure my friends.

To my great surprise, Professor Luther responded. But how! With what ardor! A whole thing has arisen. Found a promising one young man, lathered his head thoroughly, threatened: anything like that again, and within Germany no one would ever publish a single line of his. The royalties for The Demonic Woman were awarded in my favor. The young man wrote me a letter of repentance on several pages. Not only that, but the venerable Professor Luther himself apologized to me for it. The corporation apologized German writers and journalists. In the end, I felt ashamed myself, why did I start this mess?...

And now, having finished with Germany. two words about reprints in general. A large Russian newspaper in New York got into the habit of “decorating” its basements with my feuilletons from “Renaissance.” I turned to the Canadian Society of Russian Journalists to protect my copyright. Thanks to them, they took care of me, but there was no point in it! In response to threats of prosecution, the aforementioned newspaper continues to use my feuilletons and the number of reprinted stories has reached an impressive figure of 33. Alas, my nice Canadian colleagues do not have the authority of the most touching and all-powerful Professor Luther.

I knew it! No “real” interview is complete without this. What am I working on? I’ll tell you frankly, without hiding, I’m writing an emigrant novel, where, although under pseudonyms, but very transparently, I bring out a whole phalanx of living people, pillars of emigration of a wide variety of professions and social provisions. Will I spare my friends? Maybe yes, maybe no. Don't know. I once had something similar with Chateaubriand. He also announced the release of the same portrait novel. The alarmed friends immediately organized themselves into a society whose goal was to create a monetary fund named after Chateaubriand. Something like a propitiatory sacrifice to a formidable, punishing deity... I wouldn’t have anything against it, Teffi adds with a smile, and I have absolutely nothing against such a friendly fund in favor of me, a sinner. However, isn't it time to end? I'm afraid that I will take up a lot of space for my special one in the magazine “For You”!

Well, it turns out that it’s no longer “For you”, but “For me”. So what else? Overwhelm me beginner authors. People from all over send their works with requests to publish them. And in order for the request to be valid, they dedicate all their stories to me. They think that Teffi, delighted with such attention, will immediately rush to the appropriate editorial offices and, with a Browning in hand, force young authors to publish, at least in anticipation of the publication of flattering dedications. Taking this opportunity, I inform all my ardent correspondents that I, well, am not at all vain! True, there are some good stories, but most often my young people write about what they don’t know. And what he knows, he is silent about. For example, an author from Morocco sent me a story...Who would you think of? About the Eskimos! Although I don’t particularly care about Eskimo life, I immediately sensed something was wrong.

From aspiring writers we move on to our Parisian professionals.

Tell me, I ask, Nadezhda Alexandrovna, how can we explain such a squabble among our brother? It would seem equally disadvantaged? Why?

Angry cats gnawing

In evil people, in the hearts...

What a memory you have! - Teffi was amazed and cat's eyes sparks flashed. - Why? We are all exhausted, we have no strength to endure anymore...

Humorous stories

...For laughter is joy, and therefore in itself is good.

Spinoza. "Ethics", part IV. Position XLV, scholium II.

Curry favor

Leshka has been numb for a long time right leg, but he did not dare change his position and listened eagerly. It was completely dark in the corridor, and through the narrow crack of the ajar door one could only see a brightly lit piece of the wall above the kitchen stove. A large dark circle topped with two horns wavered on the wall. Leshka guessed that this circle was nothing more than the shadow of his aunt’s head with the ends of the scarf sticking up.

The aunt came to visit Leshka, whom only a week ago she had designated as a “boy for room services,” and was now conducting serious negotiations with the cook who was her patron. The negotiations were of an unpleasantly alarming nature, the aunt was very worried, and the horns on the wall rose and fell steeply, as if some unprecedented beast was goring its invisible opponents.

It was assumed that Leshka washes his galoshes in the front. But, as you know, man proposes, but God disposes, and Leshka, with a rag in his hands, listened behind the door.

“I realized from the very beginning that he was a bungler,” the cook sang in a rich voice. - How many times do I tell him: if you, guy, are not a fool, stay in front of your eyes. Don’t do shitty things, but stay in front of your eyes. Because Dunyashka scrubs. But he doesn’t even listen. Just now the lady was screaming again - she didn’t interfere with the stove and closed it with a firebrand.

The horns on the wall are agitated, and the aunt moans like an Aeolian harp:

- Where can I go with him? Mavra Semyonovna! I bought him boots, without drinking or eating, I gave him five rubles. For the alteration of the jacket, the tailor, without drinking or eating, tore off six hryvnia...

“No other way than to send him home.”

- Darling! The road, no food, no food, four rubles, dear!

Leshka, forgetting all precautions, sighs outside the door. He doesn't want to go home. His father promised that he would skin him seven times, and Leshka knows from experience how unpleasant that is.

“It’s still too early to howl,” the cook sings again. “So far, no one is chasing him.” The lady only threatened... But the tenant, Pyotr Dmitrich, is very interceding. Right behind Leshka. That's enough, Marya Vasilievna says, he's not a fool, Leshka. He, he says, is a complete idiot, there’s no point in scolding him. I really stand up for Leshka.

- Well, God bless him...

“But with us, whatever the tenant says is sacred.” Because he is a well-read person, he pays carefully...

- And Dunyashka is good! – the aunt twirled her horns. - I don’t understand people like this - telling lies on a boy...

- Truly! True. Just now I tell her: “Go open the door, Dunyasha,” affectionately, as if in a kind way. So she snorts in my face: “Grit, I’m not your doorman, open the door yourself!” And I sang everything to her here. How to open doors, so you, I say, are not a doorman, but how to kiss a janitor on the stairs, so you are still a doorman...

- Lord have mercy! From these years to everything I spied. The girl is young, she should live and live. One salary, no food, no...

- Me, what? I told her straight out: how to open doors, you’re not a doorman. She, you see, is not a doorman! And how to accept gifts from a janitor, she is a doorman. Yes, lipstick for the tenant...

Trrrrr… – the electric bell crackled.

- Leshka! Leshka! - the cook shouted. - Oh, you, you failed! Dunyasha was sent away, but he didn’t even listen.

Leshka held his breath, pressed himself against the wall and stood quietly until the angry cook swam past him, angrily rattling her starched skirts.

“No, pipes,” thought Leshka, “I won’t go to the village. I’m not a stupid guy, I’ll want to, so I’ll quickly curry favor. You can’t wipe me out, I’m not like that.”

And, waiting for the cook to return, he walked with decisive steps into the rooms.

“Be, grit, before our eyes. And what kind of eyes will I be when no one is ever home?

He walked into the hallway. Hey! The coat is hanging - a tenant of the house.

He rushed to the kitchen and, snatching the poker from the dumbfounded cook, rushed back into the rooms, quickly opened the door to the tenant’s room and went to stir the stove.

The tenant was not alone. With him was a young lady, wearing a jacket and a veil. Both shuddered and straightened up when Leshka entered.

“I’m not a stupid guy,” thought Leshka, poking the burning wood with a poker. “I’ll irritate those eyes.” I’m not a parasite - I’m all in business, I’m all in business!..”

The firewood crackled, the poker rattled, sparks flew in all directions. The lodger and the lady were tensely silent. Finally, Leshka headed towards the exit, but stopped right at the door and began to anxiously examine the wet spot on the floor, then turned his eyes to the guest’s feet and, seeing the galoshes on them, shook his head reproachfully.

“Here,” he said reproachfully, “they left it behind!” And then the hostess will scold me.

The guest flushed and looked at the tenant in confusion.

“Okay, okay, go ahead,” he calmed embarrassedly.

And Leshka left, but not for long. He found a rag and returned to wipe the floor.

He found the lodger and his guest silently bending over the table and immersed in contemplation of the tablecloth.

“Look, they were staring,” thought Leshka, “they must have noticed the spot.” They think I don't understand! Found a fool! I understand. I work like a horse!”

And, approaching the thoughtful couple, he carefully wiped the tablecloth under the tenant’s very nose.

- What are you doing? - he was scared.

- Like what? I can't live without my eye. Dunyashka, the oblique devil, only knows a dirty trick, and she’s not the doorman to keep order... The janitor on the stairs...

- Go away! Idiot!

But the young lady frightenedly grabbed the tenant’s hand and spoke in a whisper.

“He’ll understand...” Leshka heard, “the servants... gossip...”

The lady had tears of embarrassment in her eyes, and in a trembling voice she said to Leshka:

- Nothing, nothing, boy... You don’t have to close the door when you go...

The tenant grinned contemptuously and shrugged.

Leshka left, but, having reached the front hall, he remembered that the lady asked not to lock the door, and, returning, opened it.

The tenant jumped away from his lady like a bullet.

“Eccentric,” Leshka thought as he left. “It’s light in the room, but he’s scared!”

Leshka walked into the hallway, looked in the mirror, and tried on the resident’s hat. Then he walked into the dark dining room and scratched the cupboard door with his nails.

- Look, you unsalted devil! You're here all day, like a horse, working, and all she knows is locking the closet.

I decided to go stir the stove again. The door to the resident's room was closed again. Leshka was surprised, but entered.

The tenant sat calmly next to the lady, but his tie was on one side, and he looked at Leshka with such a look that he only clicked his tongue:

“What are you looking at! I myself know that I’m not a parasite, I’m not sitting idly by.”

The coals are stirred, and Leshka leaves, threatening that he will soon return to close the stove. A quiet half-moan, half-sigh was his answer.