UNDER THE MASK OF LAUGHTER
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I have known Teffi's work for 15 years. After reading her “Memoirs” (I consider this work by Taffy the BEST), I naturally became interested in her true biography. Why true? And "Memories", what, fiction? It would seem, much more frankly? After all, Teffi recorded this period of her life not by order of the newspaper (as, for example, her “How I Became a Writer” and “Pseudonym”), but FOR HERSELF - at least it seems so when reading ...
However, a writer is a writer: "Memoirs" is not a protocol, but piece of art with a certain share fiction. And it did not satisfy my desire to KNOW THE TRUTH.
I started searching...
Real biography Nadezhda Alexandrovna Lokhvitskaya (emphasis on the first O) - according to by and large- still remains "at some turns" a mystery. Firstly, the true date of her birth is not at all clear. Yes, the date 1872 is engraved on her tombstone (in Paris), this is a well-known fact, BUT one of the private collections contains the original QUESTIONNAIRE filled out by N.A. in 1906, when she was hired by the editorial office (possibly), where she herself indicates the date of her birth on April 26 (according to the old style), 1875. True, the original spelling of the year is thoroughly smeared with ink (only the numbers 1 and 7 can be made out under the inkblot). And did N.A. did you fix the date? Or did someone else decide to “rejuvenate” her by three years?..
A scan from this profile is in the book "Teffi", a series of "Anthology of satire and humor of Russia in the 20th century", Eksmo publishing house, 2006.
On all electronic resources on the Internet in currently The date is 1872. At the same time, the younger sister of Nadezhda, Elena, with whom they were very friendly and very close to early childhood, was WEATHER in relation to Nadezhda and, at the same time, JUNIOR. Teffi herself speaks about this in many of her stories (Elena is generally the only one from the entire Lokhvitsky family who appears in many texts of Nadezhda under her real name). Elena's date of birth is 1874.
“... and the youngest, Elena, also turned out to be the author of several talented plays that went to different theaters... "(Teffi," Alias ")
It turns out that, logically, in order to be older than Elena for a year, Nadezhda was supposed to be born in 1873? ..
Or Elena's date of birth is not true?
Here's another " White spot": the date of birth of Teffi's eldest daughter, Valya (Valeria, although the name Valentine can also be assumed) is known - 1892. IN famous story Taffy “Valya” read: “I was in my twenty-first year. To her, my daughter, the fourth. We didn't get along very well…”
Subtract from twenty-three ...
And in the story “The Witch” (although here Teffi narrates on behalf of “one very respected lady”, however, judging by the events and characters of the story, she “wrote it from herself”): “I was then nineteen years old, my Valya and a half of the year…"
At the same time, it is known that Nadezhda got married very early - immediately after graduating from the Foundry Gymnasium in St. Petersburg. By the way, this is also written in that questionnaire in the column “main stations on life path":" She graduated from the Foundry Gymnasium, got married (at) 17 years old.
This event falls just in 1892, that is, the year of the birth of Valya's daughter (which is logical). And again, the date of birth of 1872 does not add up: Nadezhda would then be 20 years old at the time of the birth of her daughter. What to do with these dates? Or is the story "Valya" entirely and completely fiction? ..
But the date of birth is not the only mystery that haunted me. Nadia's father, Alexander Vladimirovich Lokhvitsky, was a recognized lawyer and public figure of his time, data on his life and career are more or less known, but here - I quote several sources - "... the exact number of his children could not be established, it is only known that there was a significant age difference between the children."
I also did not fully manage to clarify the situation, but if you carefully study all the available sources, you get the following:
1. Varvara Aleksandrovna (1866 - 1940), by Popov's husband, writer (pseudonym Myurgit);
2. Nikolai Alexandrovich (1868 - 1933), military man;
3. Maria Alexandrovna (1869 - 1905), by her husband Zhiber, poetess (pseudonym Mirra Lokhvitskaya);
4. Nadezhda Aleksandrovna (? - 1952), Buchinskaya by her husband, writer (pseudonym Teffi);
5. Elena Aleksandrovna (1874 - 1919), Plundovskaya by her husband, translator, author theatrical plays(pseudonym Eliot);
6. Lidia Alexandrovna (? -?), by husband Kozhin
7. Vera Alexandrovna (? - ?)
Yes, there is a clear confusion either with the date of birth of Nadezhda, or with the date of Elena's birth. And in touching story“Happy” we read: “I remember: I am six years old. My sister is four ... We are standing side by side, looking out the window at the muddy spring twilight street ...”
One thing we know for sure: Elena was the youngest of the sisters. Lydia and Vera are the last ones on my list because the exact dates of their lives are not known.
Now about the children of Nadezhda Alexandrovna herself. I repeat that she got married early, between the 16th and 17th years (immediately after graduating from the gymnasium). My husband's name was Vladislav Buchinsky, he was a student (or already a graduate) Faculty of Law. The place of residence of the young depended on the place of service of Vladislav (“Where they will send!”). And these were not the front doors of Petersburg and Moscow, to which Nadezhda was accustomed.
The first child, Valya (Valeriya), was born in 1892. Elena and Janek (the son's Polish name - the choice, apparently, of Vladislav's husband, who had Polish roots) were born in 1900. It is not clear if they were twins or just born on the same year.
I don’t think that some of Teffi’s stories (“Valya”, “Wolf Night”, “Witch”) can be unequivocally perceived as autobiographical (she didn’t write the protocol!), But, however, it seemed to me that not all the events of those “children’s” years (I'm talking about the childhood of the daughters and son of the future writer) were for N.A. definitely joyful. Moreover, it seems to me that motherhood did not bring her satisfaction. I would say: THIS IS NOT WHAT SHE WANTED FROM LIFE, this is not how she imagined her future.
I do not mean the constant fatigue of a young mother from the need to take care of her children every day, from communicating with them (even with nannies and governesses - this was accepted - it is still very draining emotionally and physically).
It seems that Nadezhda Alexandrovna, in principle, was BORED as the mother of a large family.
Maybe her husband Vladislav could not (or did not want to) understand that Nadezhda was not content with the life that she has in her 20-25 years, that her soul and mind are asking for some other food? The constant spiritual dissatisfaction of Nadezhda became the reason for frequent disagreements, which slip here and there (“hints of hints”) in some of her stories.
You can, of course, regard this as a joke, but without personal experience such things are “not joking”: “... If she had known that everything would turn out so horribly, she would never have married. I would take courses. Although it is difficult to study again. Tired ... And Stanya in the village is not at all the same as he was in the city. There he was secular, well-dressed ... Here he is boring, sleepy, does not answer questions, smokes and slaps solitaire ... He is boring, angry, he scolds, but still he is much better than the moon, than wolves ... "
Under the name Stanya N.A. brought her husband Vladislav. The story "Wolf Night" - "about the events of the first pregnancy" N.A.
Or maybe it’s not at all about the “boring and evil” personality of her husband, and not about the psychological emptiness of a young mother (which, of course, is normal with so many children), but that Nadezhda FROM THE BEGINNING dreamed of ANOTHER LIFE. And with her marriage at the age of 16, she, as it were, crossed out this opportunity, this horizon, blocked her own path ...
By the way, we do not know if this marriage was concluded for love? And who at the age of 16 is sure of his feelings, of his choice?
And in general, was it Nadine's choice? .. Maybe this marriage was a forced step (Nadya's father died in 1884, when she was - about - 10 years old; her mother, having become a widow, did not marry again; a large family could need and etc.)
Be that as it may, I see some dissonance in state of mind Nadezhda Alexandrovna, WIFE and MOTHER.
Very soon, to put it modern language(modern?), her marriage began to "burst at the seams." Hope leaves the family. Three children remain with her husband (most likely, in his Mogilev estate). According to my assumptions, this event takes place around 1905. Hope is (about) 30 years old. Perhaps she moves to St. Petersburg to live with her mother and her younger sister Elena (it is known that Elena married late, staying with her mother almost until her 40s).
Of course, for N.A. it was a huge tragedy. But, I think, the following conditions were set for her: either a house, a husband, children (such a “quiet female happiness”), or ... a metropolitan literary career. May be, creative plans ON THE. could have been realized later, when the children would have been older, and the mother’s departure from the family would have been less painful, BUT, I repeat, we know nothing about the personality and behavior of Vladislav’s husband ... Perhaps the latter just accelerated the day of N.A.
I can’t get out of my head Taffy’s amazing story “The Inanimate Beast”. There, too, the mother left the family. The husband (former) behaved aggressively towards her ... AND BOTH remained absolutely deaf to their common little daughter Katya, leaving her entirely in the care of the old nanny ...
And there are so many terrible details about all the “participants in the events” in this story! Where did N.A. SUCH knowledge human psychology? Overheard? Spied? Or is it still own experience, carefully recorded and analyzed? ..
But I repeat to myself again: you can’t, you can’t, you can’t try on CREATED creative imagination writer to his real life...
And so you want!
An important detail: for a long time among the nobility, literature classes for young married (especially married!) women were considered unacceptable. It was possible to write only "on the table". Maximum - for a narrow circle of relatives and friends. But better - no need, except perhaps a quatrain to a friend in an album. ( Lyrical digression: it is for this reason that many owners of the poetic gift could not show their talent to the general public. In particular, the author famous song“A Christmas tree was born in the forest” Raisa Adamovna Gedroits-Kudasheva, “twice a princess” - by father and husband; 1878-1964. Kudasheva published a lot in her youth, but always under pseudonyms. But the "lucky" Lydia Alekseevna Voronova-Churilova-Charskaya, 1875-1937, could not hide from the public: she was "no family, no tribe", besides writer's work became her only means of subsistence.
... Or the role of the mother of a large family seemed to N.A. fundamentally incompatible with professional occupation literature?
How did others react to the act of N.A. – unknown. Did you sympathize? Condemned?.. I have never found any "living" evidence anywhere. But N.A. herself SILENT about this tragedy. As if her mouth was sealed.
It was an invisible KOM, which, it seems, until the end of his days, N.A. hid even from close friends. Only in the second half of her life did she manage to establish relations with eldest daughter Valya, who worked in the Polish mission in London. The youngest, Elena (perhaps named after her beloved Nadina younger sister), lived in Warsaw, where she worked as a dramatic actress in the theater and, possibly, as a dancer. Nothing is known about the son of Janek, except that he was called up for military service during the First World War ...
By the way, Teffi has a story "The New Cross" about how the old panna Tsesya was waiting for a short visit to her son Yasya, who had gone to the front. In this story, the mother did not wait for her son. Polish name Yas is a diminutive of Janek, although this name has VERY MANY variations around the world.
Perhaps, if it were not for the political events of 1917-1919, which expelled N.A. from Russia (at that time she served in the editorial office of one of the St. Petersburg newspapers), her contact with children would have been possible in some form ... But due to forced emigration, the family of N.A. (not only husband and children, but also mother, brother, sisters) turned out to be broken.
Interestingly, at the time of emigration, Teffi's mother, daughters and son were already adults and could themselves express a desire to live with their mother (before, perhaps, their father forbade them to communicate with her in principle), but ... they did not.
After all of the above, it seems natural to me that Taffy has SO MANY STORIES ABOUT CHILDREN. No, not for children, but about children. Wasn't her great LONGING splashed out in such an indirect way? ..
At the same time, their psychological portraits("types") are performed masterfully, with such profound knowledge child psychology, what a wonder you are given: how does she, a mother, AS IF abandoned her children, know such subtleties of a child's soul? And these stories are written with great love and tenderness! It can be assumed that AND THIS is nothing more than a "poetic fiction." But you can invent or greatly embellish the EVENTS. Love cannot be imagined. It will only be false. And Teffi literally pierces my heart with these "stories from the lives of children." These stories are remembered precisely for their emotional "realness" and sometimes scary, but always seeming true everyday details.
Where did she get such knowledge of a child's soul? Where, how did she collect this invaluable writing material? Did you visit your many friends who had children? Sitting in a corner with your notepad and methodically making observations? Or are all her stories from OWN CHILDHOOD, “called by other names”? Or is it huge mother's love to the abandoned daughters and son, N.A. so much truth and pain?
In these "children's stories" the attitude of the writer to children is not just attentive, but tremulous. You cannot invent such an attitude, you have to live it, go through it, pass it through yourself; it is the result of many years of long-term observations ...
Here is another incomprehensible fact: in addition to Lena's beloved sister, N.A. no one else from her large family in any story brought under his own name. As if they were only material for her, “characters”, “types”, and not close people.
I began to wonder: are they close? Maybe the age difference was “not good” for warm communication within the family? Or, in principle, was there a deep spiritual unity only with Lena?
All of them, these relatives, were dying in different cities and countries separated from each other. In "Memories" there is only Lena. One phrase, but what! N.A. expressed all her love for Lena with this one a short phrase: “I will find out only after three years that my Lena was dying thousands of miles from me, in Arkhangelsk ...” (before that: “... Why on this, on this Easter night, she came to me thousands of miles away, into the dark sea, my sister, came as a little girl, which I loved her most of all, and stood near me?)
About the eldest Masha - Mirra, the famous poetess, not a word directly. They say that Nadezhda and Maria never loved each other. Or maybe, early death older sister (at 35) did Nadia later change her attitude towards her?
About brother Nikolai (his eyes became very similar with age: large, deep, bright, as if filled to the brim with tears) - nothing more. Well, here, for example, it was impossible to say much: Nikolai, Lieutenant General, fought on the side of the White Army and remained, like his sister Nadezhda, in exile (while neither Masha, nor Lena, nor Varvara Lokhvitsky, these no less FAMOUS SISTERS did not leave their homeland. However, their homeland did not particularly thank them for this and consigned them to oblivion at the first opportunity).
Or the silence of N.A. and here is due to the same pain, the same lump as the loss of children? And we still know so little about all these people (except, perhaps, Masha-Mirra). Like N.A. still, a century later, tells us: “Don't touch it! Don't talk about it!" And he finishes to himself: "THIS STILL HURTS VERY MUCH FOR ME."
Or did Teffi really "go over their heads"? The only thing that really mattered to her was her literary career, her own literary fate?.. And the death and silence of her relatives were relatively indifferent to her? ..
I don't want to think like that!
Towards the end of his life, in Paris (before that there was still life in Berlin), N.A. severely poor financially. Absolute loneliness, professional lack of demand, homesickness, familylessness, memories, cardiovascular problems led, as a result, to some insanity. ON THE. complained to Irina Odoevtseva that as soon as she was on a city street, she immediately began to count the windows. And until all the windows on the selected facade are numbered, she cannot continue on her way ...
Outwardly depression N.A. was not obvious. She carried her own motto “I want to please everyone and always” until the end of her days: for lunch she could only have a soft-boiled egg, but at the same time her lips were made up, her nose was powdered, she takes flirtatiously “sloping over her left eye” ... In a word - “tail pipe "!.. Outwardly, N.A. never went down.
But HOW MANY LOSSES! How many! And tears, tears, tears that N.A. never gave way, never allowed herself. Her stories are not “laughter through tears”, but “laughter INSTEAD of tears”. In my opinion, she forced herself to laugh, so as not to choke in her own tears, not to become deaf from her own howling ...
Her laugh was just a talented MASK. I have come to this conclusion over the years.
What huge price Nadezhda Alexandrovna Lokhvitskaya - Buchinskaya paid for the opportunity to engage in literary work!
Teffi's daughters (Valeria OR (!) Valentina Vladislavovna, by her husband Grabovskaya, who lived in England, and Elena Vladislavovna, who lived in Poland) survived her by only a few years.
In Paris, N.A. cohabited with Pavel Andreevich Tikston, 1873-1935, who, at the same time, did not leave his wife and adult son. In many sources, this person is called "Teffi's second husband." Legally, this is not the case, but "by other standards" their union can be called a full-fledged marriage. Pavel Andreevich died precisely in the arms of N.A.
P.S. Doesn't leave me alone that's what event from own life: my acquaintance with Teffi began by accident, with the story "Markita". I then stayed in a distant village near Moscow. In the evening, having nothing to do, I took out from the pile of magazines and newspapers, set aside for kindling the stove, "Worker" for 1989 (or something like that). And somehow the number 78 especially stuck in my memory: the author of the preface to "Markita" wrote that the writer Teffi lived for 78 years ... Where did he get this number from? Did he know about the dates of life carved on her tombstone in Paris? talented person. A little before the anniversary did not live ... "
As for decency, she was strict and demanded that everyone greet her first. Once she came to me very excited and indignant:
Kuharkina Motka went out onto the balcony in one skirt, and there the geese were walking around.
Yes, she was strict.
Christmas that year approached sad and caring. Somehow I laughed, because I really wanted to live in God's world, and cried even more, because I didn’t manage to live.
Valya and the baby elephant talked all day about the Christmas tree. It was necessary, therefore, by all means to get a Christmas tree.
I wrote out, in secret, from Muir and Mereliz cartonages. Dismantled at night.
The cartoons turned out to be just wonderful: parrots in golden cells, houses, lanterns, but best of all was a little angel, with iridescent mica wings, all in gold sparkles. He hung on an elastic band, the wings moved. From what he was - do not understand. Like wax. Cheeks are ruddy and in the hands of a rose. I have never seen such a miracle.
And immediately I thought - it's better not to hang it on the Christmas tree. Valya will still not understand all his charms, but will only break him. I'll leave it to myself. So I decided.
And in the morning Valya sneezed, which meant a runny nose. I got scared.
It's okay that she looks so fat, she may be fragile. And I don't care about her. I am a bad mother. Here is an angel hidden. What is better, then for yourself. “She won’t understand!” That’s why she won’t understand that I don’t develop in her love for beauty.
On Christmas Eve, at night, removing the Christmas tree, I also took out an angel. I looked at it for a long time. Well, how nice he was! In a short, thick handle - a rose. Himself cheerful, ruddy and gentle at the same time. Such an angel should be hidden in a box, and on bad days, when the postman brings evil letters and the lamps burn dimly, and the wind knocks on the iron on the roof - then only allow yourself to take it out and gently hold it by the rubber band and admire how the golden sparkles and shimmering mica wings. Maybe all this is poor and pitiful, but there is nothing better ...
I hung the angel high. He was the most beautiful of all the gizmos, which means that he should be in a place of honor. But there was another secret, vile thought: high, not so noticeable for people of "small stature."
In the evening the tree was lit. They invited the cook Motka and the laundress Leshenka. Valya behaved so sweetly and kindly that my callous heart thawed. I picked her up and showed her the angel myself.
Angel? she asked matter-of-factly. - Give it to me.
She stared at him for a long time, stroking his wings with her finger.
I saw that she liked him and I felt proud of my daughter. After all, she didn’t pay any attention to the idiotic clown, let alone what a bright one.
Valya suddenly, quickly bending her head, kissed the angel... Dear!...
Just then, the neighbor Nyushenka appeared with a gramophone and the dancing began.
We should still hide the angel for the time being, otherwise they will break it ... Where is Valya?
Valya was standing in the corner behind a bookcase. Her mouth and both cheeks were smeared with something bright crimson, and she looked embarrassed.
What is this? Valya? What happened to you? What do you have in your hand? In her hand were mica wings, broken and crumpled.
He was a little sweet.
We need to wash her quickly, wipe her tongue. Maybe the paint is poisonous. Here's what to think about. This is the main thing, It seems, thank God, everything will turn out well. But why do I cry, throwing broken mica wings into the fireplace? Well, isn't it stupid? I'm crying!..
Valya condescendingly strokes my cheek. soft hand, warm and sticky, and comforting:
Don't cry, stupid. I will buy you money.
There are three of us sitting: me, sister Lena and the priest's daughter Lisa, who comes to study and play with us for a competition in diligence and obedience.
There were no lessons today and they are not allowed to play. Today is a solemn and disturbing day - Passion Saturday.
You need to sit quietly, do not climb, do not pester, do not fight, do not fidget on your knees in a chair. Everything is difficult, everything is difficult, everything is completely unpleasant. And the whole day goes under the sign of resentment and insult.
Everyone is busy, everyone is in a hurry and angry. A governess with red spots on her cheeks is sewing her blouse on a typewriter. Terribly important! Still, the nose is spiky. Nanny went into the girl's room to iron aprons. The older sisters in the dining room are painting eggs and greeted me with the usual words:
“Only you were missing here. Nanny, take her away!"
I wanted to defend myself and immediately touched a cup of paint with my elbow and, with the help of the nanny who came to the rescue, was installed in the nursery. During this whole catastrophe, it turned out that they were not taking us to Matins.
I didn’t even cry out of anger, but simply said venomously:
I suppose they dragged me to confession. What is worse is for us, and what is better is for ourselves.
Despite this brilliant remark, the force remained on the side of the enemy and had to sit down in the nursery.
And here, as a sin, it was necessary to hastily resolve the theological dispute between me and Lena because of the robber and prayer. Batiushka said that every work must begin with prayer. And then I was struck by the position of the robber: he goes to kill, but he must pray, because killing is his business. And Lena objected that he didn’t need to pray, that he, they say, was forgiven everything at the same time.
No one to ask, no one to fight. Trouble!
Finally, Lisa arrived.
Lisa's face is thin, tight-fitting, her eyes are large, bright, very bulging and frightenedly inspired. She sees everything in life in double, triple size and lies like a hired woman.
She is a year older than me. She has already been to confession twice and is respected in our company.
The whole life of Liza's life is known to us and very interesting.
She has an uncle, a seminarian, Pyotr Yakovlevich, who drank the milk of four cows. He came when there was no one, and in the hallway there was an evening milk - he drank everything.
Then they have four golden pianos at home, but they are hidden in the hayloft so that no one can see.
Then they never dine with them, but there is a large closet in the hall, and all the fried chickens are in the closet. Who wants to eat - put his head in the cupboard, ate the chicken and went.
Then Liza has fourteen velvet dresses, but she only wears them at night so that no one can see them, and during the day she hides them in the kitchen under the macchitra, in which the dough is made.
Then Lisa speaks French very well, only not in our French, which we speak with the governess, but in another, which no one understands.
In general, Lisa's life is very interesting.
And so we sit quietly, talking. Lisa tells the news. First, he orders us to swear and swear that we will not tell anyone. We swear and for strength we also spit over our left shoulder.
To no one forever and ever, amen!
Liza squints her eyes at the door - her eyes are white, scary - and babbles:
The gardener Tryphon's wife gave birth to two puppies, and told everyone that they were guys, and as people began to inquire, she fried the puppies and ordered Tryphon to eat them.
You can't eat puppies. Sin, - Lena says frightened.
So after all, she did not confess, she said that they were guys.
My hands are cold. Lisa herself had tears in her eyes from fear and her nose was swollen.
That's what the devil teaches her. This is already known, the devil can very easily approach a sleeping person.
Liza, have you seen the devil?
I saw. This should be noticed in the evening. If the cross on your neck shines very much, it means that the devil will certainly appear at night.
Did you see?
Vidal. At night, when I wake up, I’ll stick my head out and look, and I always see: hell over dad and devil over mom. So they stand over each one in line all night.
In a black cat, they say, there is a lot of this very thing, - I say.
Damn. If she crosses the road, trouble is imminent.
Even a black hare is dangerous, Lena inserts.
I wonder in my heart how she knew such a thing without me.
Very dangerous, Lisa confirms. - When our Lidochka was dying, Aunt Katya and I went to Lychevka for muslin. We are going back, suddenly a cat is across the road. Then suddenly a hare! Then the wolf! Then a bear! Then the tiger! Then the mole! We arrive, and Lidochka has already died.
taffy
Valya
Teffi N.A. Stories. Comp. E. Trubilova. -- M.: Molodaya Gvardiya, 1990 I was in my twenty-first year. She, my daughter, is the fourth. We didn't quite get along. At that time I was somehow frightened, uneven, either crying or laughing. She, Valya, is very balanced, calm, and from morning till night she was engaged in commerce - she bargained for chocolates from me. In the morning she did not want to get up until she was given a chocolate bar. She didn’t want to go for a walk, she didn’t want to return from a walk, she didn’t want to have breakfast, dinner, drink milk, go to the bath, get out of the bath, sleep, comb her hair - there was a price for everything - chocolates. Without a chocolate bar, all life and activity ceased, and then followed by a deafening systematic roar. And then I felt like a monster and a child killer and gave in. She despised me for my stupidity - it felt like that, but treated a lot of things not very badly. Sometimes she even caressed with a soft, warm, always sticky hand from sweets. “You are my dear,” she said, “you have a nose like an elephant’s. Of course, there was nothing flattering in these words, but I knew that she placed the beauty of her rubber baby elephant above the Venus de Milo. Everyone has their own ideals. And I rejoiced, I just tried not to provoke her to tenderness in front of strangers. Apart from sweets, she had little interest in anything. Only once, while drawing mustaches on the old aunts in the album, she casually asked: - And where is Jesus Christ now? And, without waiting for an answer, she began to ask for a chocolate bar. As for decency, she was strict and demanded that everyone greet her first. Once she came to me very agitated and indignant: - Cook Motka went out onto the balcony in one skirt, and there the geese walk around. Yes, she was strict. Christmas that year approached sad and caring. Somehow I laughed, because I really wanted to live in God's world, and cried even more, because I didn’t manage to live. Valya and the baby elephant talked all day about the Christmas tree. It was necessary, therefore, by all means to get a Christmas tree. I wrote out, in secret, from Muir and Mereliz cartonages. Dismantled at night. The cartoons turned out to be just wonderful: parrots in golden cells, houses, lanterns, but best of all was a little angel, with iridescent mica wings, all in gold sparkles. He hung on an elastic band, the wings moved. What it was made of is beyond me. Like wax. Cheeks are ruddy and in the hands of a rose. I have never seen such a miracle. And immediately I thought - it's better not to hang it on the Christmas tree. Valya will still not understand all his charms, but will only break him. I'll leave it to myself. So I decided. And in the morning Valya sneezed, which meant a runny nose. I got scared. - It's nothing that she looks so fat, she may be fragile. And I don't care about her. I am a bad mother. Here is an angel hidden. What is better, then for yourself. "She won't understand"!... That's why she won't understand that I don't develop in her love for beauty. On Christmas Eve, at night, removing the Christmas tree, I also took out an angel. I looked at it for a long time. Well, how nice he was! In a short, thick handle is a rose. Himself cheerful, ruddy and gentle at the same time. It would be nice to hide such an angel in a box, and on bad days, when the postman brings evil letters and the lamps burn dimly, and the wind knocks on the iron on the roof, then only allow yourself to take it out and gently hold it by the rubber band and admire how the golden sparkles sparkle and shimmery mica wings. Maybe all this is poor and pitiful, but there is nothing better ... I hung the angel high. He was the most beautiful of all the gizmos, which means that he should be in a place of honor. But there was one more secret, vile thought: high, not so noticeable for people of "small stature". In the evening the tree was lit. They invited the cook Motka and the laundress Leshenka. Valya behaved so sweetly and kindly that my callous heart thawed. I picked her up and showed her the angel myself. - Angel? she asked matter-of-factly. - Give it to me. I gave. She stared at him for a long time, stroking his wings with her finger. I saw that she liked him and I felt proud of my daughter. After all, she didn’t pay any attention to the idiotic clown, let alone what a bright one. Valya suddenly, quickly bending her head, kissed the angel... Darling! We should still hide the angel for the time being, otherwise they will break it ... Where is Valya? Valya was standing in the corner behind a bookcase. Her mouth and both cheeks were smeared with something bright crimson, and she looked embarrassed. -- What is this? Valya? What happened to you? What do you have in your hand? In her hand were mica wings, broken and crumpled. - He was a little sweet. We need to wash her quickly, wipe her tongue. Maybe the paint is poisonous. Here's what to think about. This is the main thing, It seems, thank God, everything will turn out well. But why do I cry, throwing broken mica wings into the fireplace? Well, isn't it stupid? I'm crying! Valya condescendingly strokes my cheek with her soft hand, warm and sticky, and consoles me: - Don't cry, silly. I will buy you money.I was in my twenty-first year.
She, my daughter, is the fourth.
We didn't quite get along.
At that time I was somehow frightened, uneven, either crying or laughing.
She, Valya, is very balanced, calm, and from morning till night she was engaged in commerce - she bargained for chocolates from me.
In the morning she did not want to get up until she was given a chocolate bar. She didn’t want to go for a walk, she didn’t want to return from a walk, she didn’t want to have breakfast, dinner, drink milk, go to the bath, get out of the bath, sleep, comb her hair - there was a price for everything - chocolates. Without a chocolate bar, all life and activity ceased, and then followed by a deafening systematic roar. And then I felt like a monster and a child killer and gave in.
She despised me for my stupidity - it felt like that, but treated a lot of things not very badly. Sometimes she even caressed with a soft, warm, always sticky hand from sweets.
- You are my dear, - she said, - you have a nose like an elephant.
Of course, there was nothing flattering in these words, but I knew that she placed the beauty of her rubber baby elephant above the Venus de Milo. Everyone has their own ideals. And I rejoiced, I just tried not to provoke her to tenderness in front of strangers.
Apart from sweets, she had little interest in anything. Only once, while drawing mustaches on old aunts in the album, she asked casually:
Where is Jesus Christ now?
And, without waiting for an answer, she began to ask for a chocolate bar.
As for decency, she was strict and demanded that everyone greet her first. Once she came to me very excited and indignant:
- Kuharkina Motka went out onto the balcony in one skirt, and there the geese go.
Yes, she was strict.
Christmas that year approached sad and caring. Somehow I laughed, because I really wanted to live in God's world, and cried even more, because I didn’t manage to live.
Valya and the baby elephant talked all day about the Christmas tree. It was necessary, therefore, by all means to get a Christmas tree.
I wrote out, in secret, from Muir and Mereliz cartonages. Dismantled at night.
The cartoons turned out to be just wonderful: parrots in golden cells, houses, lanterns, but best of all was a little angel, with iridescent mica wings, all in gold sparkles. He hung on an elastic band, the wings moved. From what he was - do not understand. Like wax. Cheeks are ruddy and in the hands of a rose. I have never seen such a miracle.
And immediately I thought - it's better not to hang it on the Christmas tree. Valya will still not understand all his charms, but will only break him. I'll leave it to myself. So I decided.
And in the morning Valya sneezed, which meant a runny nose. I got scared.
- It's okay that she looks so fat, she may be fragile. And I don't care about her. I am a bad mother. Here is an angel hidden. What is better, then for yourself. “She won’t understand!” That’s why she won’t understand that I don’t develop in her love for beauty.
On Christmas Eve, at night, removing the Christmas tree, I also took out an angel. I looked at it for a long time. Well, how nice he was! In a short, thick handle - a rose. Himself cheerful, ruddy and gentle at the same time. Such an angel should be hidden in a box, and on bad days, when the postman brings evil letters and the lamps burn dimly, and the wind knocks on the iron on the roof - then only allow yourself to take it out and gently hold it by the rubber band and admire how the golden sparkles and shimmering mica wings. Maybe all this is poor and pitiful, but there is nothing better ...
I hung the angel high. He was the most beautiful of all the gizmos, which means that he should be in a place of honor. But there was another secret, vile thought: high, not so noticeable for people of "small stature."
In the evening the tree was lit. They invited the cook Motka and the laundress Leshenka. Valya behaved so sweetly and kindly that my callous heart thawed. I picked her up and showed her the angel myself.
- Angel? she asked matter-of-factly. - Give it to me.
I gave.
She stared at him for a long time, stroking his wings with her finger.
I saw that she liked him and I felt proud of my daughter. After all, she didn’t pay any attention to the idiotic clown, let alone what a bright one.
Valya suddenly, quickly bending her head, kissed the angel... Dear!...
Just then, the neighbor Nyushenka appeared with a gramophone and the dancing began.
We should still hide the angel for the time being, otherwise they will break it ... Where is Valya?
Valya was standing in the corner behind a bookcase. Her mouth and both cheeks were smeared with something bright crimson, and she looked embarrassed.
- What is this? Valya? What happened to you? What do you have in your hand? In her hand were mica wings, broken and crumpled.
- He was a little sweet.
We need to wash her quickly, wipe her tongue. Maybe the paint is poisonous. Here's what to think about. This is the main thing, It seems, thank God, everything will turn out well. But why do I cry, throwing broken mica wings into the fireplace? Well, isn't it stupid? I'm crying!..
Valya condescendingly strokes my cheek with her soft hand, warm and sticky, and consoles me:
- Don't cry, silly. I will buy you money.
Valya
I was in my twenty-first year.
She, my daughter, is the fourth.
We didn't quite get along.
At that time I was somehow frightened, uneven, either crying or laughing.
She, Valya, is very balanced, calm, and from morning till night she was engaged in commerce - she bargained for chocolates from me.
In the morning she did not want to get up until she was given a chocolate bar. She didn’t want to go for a walk, she didn’t want to return from a walk, she didn’t want to have breakfast, dinner, drink milk, go to the bath, get out of the bath, sleep, comb her hair - there was a price for everything - chocolates. Without a chocolate bar, all life and activity ceased, and then followed by a deafening systematic roar. And then I felt like a monster and a child killer and gave in,
She despised me for my stupidity - it felt like that, but she did not treat me very badly. Sometimes she even caressed with a soft, warm, always sticky hand from sweets.
You are my dear, - she said, - you have a nose like an elephant.
Of course, there was nothing flattering in these words, but I knew that she placed the beauty of her rubber baby elephant above the Venus de Milo. Everyone has their own ideals. And I rejoiced, I just tried not to provoke her to tenderness in front of strangers.
Apart from sweets, she had little interest in anything. Only once, while drawing mustaches on old aunts in the album, she asked casually:
Where is Jesus Christ now?
And, without waiting for an answer, she began to ask for a chocolate bar.
As for decency, she was strict and demanded that everyone greet her first. Once she came to me very excited and indignant:
Kuharkina Motka went out onto the balcony in one skirt, and there the geese were walking around.
Yes, she was strict.
Christmas that year was sad and caring. I somehow laughed, because I really wanted to live in God's world, and cried even more, because I could not live.
Valya and the baby elephant talked all day about the Christmas tree. It was necessary, therefore, by all means to get a Christmas tree.
I wrote out, in secret, from Muir and Mereliz cartonages. Dismantled at night.
The cartoons turned out to be just wonderful: parrots in golden cells, houses, lanterns, but best of all was a little angel, with iridescent mica wings, all in gold sparkles. He hung on an elastic band, the wings moved. From what he was - do not understand. Like wax. Cheeks are ruddy and in the hands of a rose. I have never seen such a miracle.
And immediately I thought - it's better not to hang it on the Christmas tree. Valya will still not understand all his charms, but will only break him. I'll leave it to myself. So I decided.
And in the morning Valya sneezed, which meant a runny nose. I got scared.
It's okay that she looks so fat, she may be fragile. And I don't care about her. I am a bad mother. Here is an angel hidden. What is better, then for yourself. “She won’t understand!” That’s why she won’t understand that I don’t develop in her love for beauty.
On Christmas Eve, at night, removing the Christmas tree, I also took out an angel. I looked at it for a long time. Well, how nice he was! In a short, thick handle - a rose. Himself cheerful, ruddy and gentle at the same time. Such an angel should be hidden in a box, and on bad days, when the postman brings evil letters and the lamps burn dimly, and the wind knocks on the iron on the roof - then only allow yourself to take it out and gently hold it by the rubber band and admire how the golden sparkles and shimmering mica wings. Maybe all this is poor and pitiful, but there is nothing better ...
I hung the angel high. He was the most beautiful of all the gizmos, which means that he should be in a place of honor. But there was another secret, vile thought: high, not so noticeable for people of "small stature."
In the evening the tree was lit. They invited the cook Motka and the laundress Leshenka. Valya behaved so sweetly and kindly that my callous heart thawed. I picked her up and showed her the angel myself.
Angel? she asked matter-of-factly. “Give it to me.” I gave.
She stared at him for a long time, stroking his wings with her finger.
I saw that she liked him and I felt proud of my daughter. After all, she didn’t pay any attention to the idiotic clown, let alone what a bright one.
Valya suddenly, quickly bending her head, kissed the angel ... Dear! ..
Just then, the neighbor Nyushenka appeared with a gramophone and the dancing began.
We should still hide the angel for the time being, otherwise they will break it ... Where is Valya?
Valya was standing in the corner behind a bookcase. Her mouth and both cheeks were smeared with something bright crimson, and she looked embarrassed.
What is this? Valya? What happened to you? What do you have in your hand? In her hand were mica wings, broken and crumpled.
He was a little sweet.
We need to wash her quickly, wipe her tongue. Maybe the paint is poisonous. Here's what to think about. This is the main thing. It seems, thank God, everything will turn out well.
But why do I cry, throwing broken mica wings into the fireplace? Well, isn't it stupid? I'm crying!..
Valya condescendingly strokes my cheek with her soft hand, warm and sticky, and consoles me:
Don't cry, stupid. I will buy you money.
