How I Live and Work
Many people find it surprising that I live somewhere so busy, right opposite Montparnasse station. But itâs what I like. I adore Paris. I like to hear it here beside meâknocking, honking, ringing and breathing. Sometimes, at dawn, a lorry rumbles past beneath my window so loud and so close that it seems to be coming straight through my room, and I draw up my legs in my sleep so they wonât be run over. And then what wakes me an hour or two later is Paris itselfâdear, elegant, beautiful Paris. Far better than being woken by some bewhiskered old crone of a concierge, with the eyes of a cockroach.
Many people ask if itâs possible for a small pension to provide one with complete comfort. To which I modestly reply, âWell, I wouldnât say quite complete.â
Is it this little table youâre looking at? Yes, I know itâs very small, but thereâs nothing it doesnât do. Itâs a writing table, a dining table, a dressing table and a sewing table. Itâs only three and a half feet across, but on it I have an inkwell, some writing paper, my face powder, some envelopes, my sewing box, a cup of milk, some flowers, a Bible, sweets, manuscripts and some bottles of scent. In layers, like geological strata. The Augean table. Remember how Hercules had to clean the Augean stables? Well, if Augeasâs stables were in such a state, what do you think his writing table would have been like? Probably just like mine. So, how do I write? I put the cup of milk, the Bible and the bottles of scent on the bed, while the sewing box falls of its own accord onto the floor. I need to keep everything essential close at handâand anyway thereâs nowhere else to put anything. Though I suppose the flowers could go into the cupboard.
The Bible takes up a quarter of the table, but I need it because Professor Vysheslavtsev, whose outstanding lectures I attend on Mondays (and I recommend everyone else to do the same), often refers to the Epistles of Paul.
So I need to consult the Bible.
Sometimes there are landslides on my table. Everything slips sideways and hangs over the edge. And then it takes only the slightest disturbance of the air (mountaineers will know what I mean); it takes only the opening of a window or the postman knocking at the doorâand an entire avalanche roars and crashes to the floor. Sometimes I then discover long-lost itemsâthings Iâve replaced long ago: gloves; a volume of Proust; a theatre ticket from last summer; an unsent letter (and there I was, impatiently waiting for an answer!); a flower from a ball gown⊠Sometimes this excites a kind of scientific interest in me, as if I were a palaeontologist who has happened upon the bone of a mammoth. To which era should I assign this glove or page of manuscript?
Worst of all are flowers; if thereâs a landslide, they create a flood. If someone gives me flowers, they are always taken aback by my look of sudden anxiety.
As for domestic animals, I have only a bead snake and a small monsterâa varnished cedar cone standing on little paws. It brings me luck.
While weâre on the theme of domesticity and creature comforts, I did also once have a venetian blind. But there wasnât room for it in the room; it had to go. If Iâd hung on to it, it could have created mayhem.
Iâm not planning to write anything at all big. I think youâll understand why.
We must wait for a big table. And if we wait in vainâtant pis.1
1926
Translated by Robert and Elizabeth Chandler
Notes
1 A common French idiom. Here, the sense is âWell, thatâs just too bad.â
My Pseudonym
Iâm often asked about the origin of my pseudonym: âTeffiâ. Why Teffi? It sounds like something youâd call a dog. And a great many readers of the Russian Word have indeed given this name to their fox terriers and Italian greyhounds.
And why would a Russian woman sign her work with a name that sounds English?
If I felt I needed a pen name, I could have gone for something with more of a ring to it, or at least a hint of some political ideal, like bitter Maxim Gorky, poor Demyan Bedny or Skitalets the Wanderer. Their names all hint at suffering in the name of some cause and help to win the readerâs sympathy.
Besides, women writers tend to go for male pseudonyms. A wise and circumspect move. It is common practice to regard ladies with a somewhat ironic smile, and even with incredulity:
âHow on earth did she come up with something like this?â
âHer husband must be doing the writing for her.â
Among those women who have used male pseudonyms are the writer known as âMarko Vovchokâ, the talented novelist and public figure who signed her work as âVergezhskyâ and the talented poetess who writes her critical essays under the name of âAnton the Extremeâ. All this, I repeat, has its raison dâĂȘtre. It makes sense and it looks good. But âTeffiâ? What sort of nonsense is that?
So Iâd like to give an honest account of how this literary name came into being. It was as I was taking my first steps in literature. At the time I had published only two or three poems, to which Iâd put my own name, and I had also written a little one-act play. I had no idea at all how I was going to get this play on stage. Everyone around me was saying that it was absolutely impossibleâI needed to have theatrical connections and a literary name with clout. Otherwise the play would never be stagedâand no one would ever even bother to read it.
âWhat theatre director wants to read just any old nonsense when he could be reading Hamlet or The Government Inspector? Let alone something concocted by some female!â
At this point I began to do some serious thinking. I didnât want to hide behind a male pseudonym. That would be weak and cowardly. Iâd rather use a name that was incomprehensible, neither one thing nor the other.
But what? It had to be a name that would bring good luck. Best of all would be the name of some foolâfools are always lucky.
Finding a fool, of course, was easy enough. I knew a great many of them. But which one should I choose? Obviously it had to be someone very special. Then I remembered a fool who was not only special, but also unfailingly luckyâsomeone clearly recognized even by fate as the perfect fool.
His name was Stepan, but at home everyone called him Steffi. After tactfully discarding the first letter (so that the fool would not get too big for his boots), I decided to sign my play âTeffiâ. Then I took a deep breath and sent it straight to the Suvorin Theatre. I didnât say a word to anyone because I was sure my enterprise would fail.
A month or two went by. I had nearly forgotten about my little play. It had taught me just one thing: that not even fools always bring you good luck.
But then one day in New Times I read: âThe Woman Question, a one-act play by Teffi, has been accepted for production at the Maly Theatre.â
I felt terror. Then utter despair.
I could see immediately that my little play was rank nonsense, that it was silly, dull, that you couldnât hide for long behind a pseudonym, and that the play was bound to be a spectacular flopâone that would shame me for the rest of my life. I didnât know what to do, and there was no one I could turn to for advice.
And then I recalled with horror that when I sent the manuscript I had included my name and return address. That wouldnât be a problem if they thought I had sent the package on behalf of somebody else, but what if they guessed the truth? What then?
I didnât have long to think it over. The next day an official letter came in the post, giving me the date of the first night and informing me when rehearsals would start. I was invited to attend.
Everything was out in the open. My lines of retreat had been cut off. This was rock bottom. Since nothing could be more terrifying, I could now give serious thought to my situation.
Why exactly had I decided the play was so very bad? If it was bad, they wouldnât have accepted it. That they had accepted it could only be thanks to the good luck of the fool whose name I had taken. If I had signed the play âKantâ or âSpinozaâ, they would surely have rejected it.
I needed to pull myself together and go to the rehearsal. Otherwise they might try to track me down through the police.
Along I went. The play was being directed by Yevtikhy Karpov, someone suspicious of any kind of innovation, a man of the old school.
âBox set, three doors, and your lines from memoryârattle them off facing the audience.â
He greeted me with condes...