Subtly Worded and Other Stories

Teffi, Robert Chandler, Anne Marie Jackson, Clare Kitson, Robert Chandler, Anne Marie Jackson, Clare Kitson, Natalia Wase

• Publisher: Pushkin Press
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN:
  9781782270379
• eBook ISBN:
  9781782270836
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

A selection of the finest stories by this female Chekhov
Teffi's genius with the short form made her a literary star in pre-revolutionary Russia, beloved by Tsar Nicholas II and Vladimir Lenin alike. These stories, taken from the whole of her career, show the full range of her gifts. Extremely funny-a wry, scathing observer of society-she is also capable, as capable even as Chekhov, of miraculous subtlety and depth of character.

There are stories here from her own life (as a child, going to meet Tolstoy to plead for the life of War and Peace's Prince Bolkonsky, or, much later, her strange, charged meetings with the already-legendary Rasputin). There are stories of émigré society, its members held together by mutual repulsion. There are stories of people misunderstanding each other or misrepresenting themselves. And throughout there is a sly, sardonic wit and a deep, compelling intelligence.

PART I

Before the Revolution

A RADIANT EASTER

Like a torch, they passed the good news one to another, and, as if from a torch, each lit from it his own flame.

— From Legends about the Lives of the First Christians

SAMOSOV STOOD there gloomily, watching the deacon with the incense and thinking, “Go on, swing that incense, swing that incense! Think you can swing yourself into a bishopric? Some hope!”

Wanting to move closer to his boss, who was also praying in the church, he slowly but surely elbowed away a small boy. He wanted his boss to know he was there—this was why he had come.

“He’s brought his wife along,” muttered Samosov, crossing himself. “A right bitch she is! Forty lovers—and off she goes to church with her pencilled eyebrows! Here at least, in the presence of God, you might think she’d show a little shame. The man’s a fool, too—he imagined she had a dowry. And she, of course, didn’t want to starve to death—she was only too ready to marry him.”

“Christ is risen!” proclaimed the priest.

“He is risen indeed!” Samosov responded with feeling. And then, in an undertone: “And he’s brought his mother-in-law along too! Of course! If he left her at home, she’d be either smashing the china or forcing the safe. All she cares about is getting those daughters of hers married off. They’re a gaggle of monsters—she’s trying to get them off her hands as cheap as she can. And they can’t even buy the old woman a decent hat! Their idea of fun is to stick an old galosh on her head. To make everyone laugh. A fine show of respect for an old woman… But like it or not, she did bring you monsters into the world! There’s no getting away from that… Go on, swing that incense! They’ll make you an archimandrite! A metropolitan!”

The service came to an end. With dignified deference Samosov approached his boss.

“Yes, risen indeed!”

They exchanged kisses.

He kissed the hand of the boss’s wife. He kissed the hand of the boss’s mother-in-law.

“Yes, yes! It brings me such joy to see this crowd of simple people professing their faith in the timelessness of ordinances… which… My wife? No, she’s stayed behind, you see, managing the household… A regular Martha from the New Testament.”

He left the church, continuing for a while to sense both an inner glow from this meeting with a superior and the scent of floral eau de Cologne on his moustache. But little by little he returned to his senses.

“He might have invited me back to his home—so we could all break our fast together! The women were glad to see me! They stuck their hands out for a kiss. I suppose there aren’t many people eager to kiss their manky paws.”

He went home.

His wife and daughter were already at table, about to eat their ham and paskha.1

His wife had the hurt and confused look of someone who is constantly being scolded.

His daughter’s large nose slanted slightly to the right, dragging along with it a squinting left eye that peered out at the world with suspicion.

Samosov thought for a moment: “Oh, I like that! They think I’ve got presents for them!”

He banged his fist on the table.

“Who the devil gave you permission to break fast without me?”

“What do you mean?” asked his wife in amazement. “We thought you were at your boss’s. You said yourself—”

“A man can’t even get any peace in his own home!” said Samosov, almost in tears. He very much wanted some ham, but it didn’t seem right to start eating in the middle of a family row. “Have some tea brought to my room!”

He slammed the door after him.

“Anyone else would have come back from church and said, ‘The Lord has blessed us’,” said the daughter, looking at her mother with one eye and at her plate with the other. “But we never do anything like normal people!”

“Who is it you’re referring to?” asked the mother. “Your father? How dare you speak like that! Day in, day out, without a moment’s rest, your father ploughs away with his pen like a real workhorse. Then he comes home to break his fast and his daughter won’t even exchange Easter greetings with him. Still thinking about Andrei Petrovich, are you? I’m sure you’re ever so important to him! And how is it you try to charm him? By being rude to your parents? A girl with any self-respect does what she can to make life easier for her parents. She tries to earn a little money herself. Yulia… What’s her name? You know the name, that bearded lady… Yulia Pastrana’s been supporting her parents since the age of two. She’s been helping her other relatives as well.”

“So am I to blame that I wasn’t given a brilliant education? It’s easy enough to find secretarial work if you’ve been brilliantly educated.”

The mother stood up in a dignified manner.

“I’ll have tea sent up to my room! Thank you! You’ve ruined the entire holiday.”

She walked out.

Looking around brightly, her face flushed and joyful, the cook came into the dining room with a red-painted egg in her hands.

“Christhasrisenmiss! The Lord grantyouonlythebest! And a good husband! A capital young husband!”

“The Devil take you! Cheeky creature! Slobbering all over my face like that!”

“The Lord have mercy!” said the cook, taking a step back. “Why on earth… How can you refuse a fellow Christian an Easter kiss? So what if my visage is somewhat flushed? I’m speechless for words… All day long I’ve done nothing but bake and boil—the mere exhaustion of it all’s enough to make a woman red in the visage. The stove’s been alight all day—there’s such an inflammation in there you can hardly breathe. And it’s hot outside, too, though it did mizzle a bit in the morning! Last year was a thousand times cooler! It snowed on our way to Mass.”

“Oh, leave me in peace!” squealed the young lady. “Or I’ll tell mother to give you the sack.”

She spun on her heels and left the room, strutting off in the manner of all mistresses who have just quarrelled with one of their servants.

“Oo-ooh, I’m terrible scared!” the cook sang out after her. “Oo-ooh, you’ve put the fear of God in me… Huh! Pay me my wages and you can do as you please! I don’t think I’ve sniffed five kopeks from you since Christmas. I’ll clear the table, but then I’m lying down and I’m not making no one no tea. If it’s slave labour you want, you can find yourselves a convict. He can make tea for you even in the middle of the night.”

She took a dirty plate from the table and then, keeping to the system followed by every maid-of-all-work, placed a spoon on the plate, another plate on top of the spoon, a glass on this second plate, and a dish of ham on the glass. She was about to place a tray of cups on top of the ham when everything crashed to the floor.

“Oh, to hell with it all!”

All she had left in her hand was the original plate.

The cook thought for a while, then tossed the plate into the pile too.

After scratching behind one ear, underneath her headscarf, she suddenly, as if remembering something, went back into the kitchen.

On a stool, lapping up milk and water from a little dish, was a scrawny cat. A little girl—an orphan, just to wash the dishes—was squatting down in front of this cat, looking at her and repeating, “Drink it up, my little darling, drink it up! Yes, you’ve fasted enough. Let’s hope some good food will plump you up quickly.”

The cook seized the girl by one ear.

“Who’s been smashing china in the dining room? Huh? Is that what they keep you here for? To smash up the china? Measly-faced little tyke! Huh? Who told you to go and clear up in the dining room? You little blockhead—tomorrow they’ll give you what for!”

The little girl gave a frightened whimper and blew her nose in her apron. She rubbed her ear, blew her nose in the hem of her skirt, let out a sob, blew her nose in the corner of her headscarf, then suddenly rushed at the cat, pushed her onto the floor and gave her a good kick.

“To hell with you, you scrounging beast! You don’t give us a moment’s peace, you heathen creature. Milk, milk, milk—that’s all you ever want! Well, I hope you snuff it before you die!”

Encouraged by the girl’s foot, the cat leapt out onto the staircase, barely managing to get away with her tail, which was almost chopped off by the door.

She took refuge behind the dustbin and sat there for a long time without stirring, afraid that a mighty enemy might be searching for her.

Then she began to pour out her grief and bewilderment to the dustbin. But what did the dustbin care? It said nothing.

“Oo-au!”

That was all the cat knew.

“Oo-au!”

But who could make any sense of that?

1910

Notes

1 paskha: A sweet cream-cheese dish eaten at Easter (Russian).

THE CORSICAN

THE INTERROGATION had been dragging on, and the police officer felt exhausted; he declared a break and went off to his office for a rest.

With a sweet smile of satisfaction he was approaching the couch; suddenly he stopped, his face taking on a twisted look, as if he had seen something foul.

The other side of the wall, a loud bass voice was singing, clearly enunciating each word: “Forward, forward, O working class!”1

Not quite able to keep up with this, out of time and out of tune, a timid and hoarse little voice was singing: “Fowad, fowad!”

“What on earth’s going on?” the officer exclaimed, pointing to the wall.

The clerk straightened up a little in his chair.

“I have already had occasion to report to you on the matter of this agent.”

“What are you on about? Keep it simple.”

“Agent Fialkin has expressed a pressing and imperative wish to enter the ranks of our provocateurs. This is the second winter running that he has been on duty by the Mikhailov tramway. He’s a quiet chap. Only he’s ambitious beyond his station in life. Here I am, he says, wasting my youth and expending the best of my strength on the trams. He is concerned about the slow progress of his career on the trams and the im...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• CONTENTS
• INTRODUCTION
• PART I
• PART II
• PART III
• PART IV
• PART V
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• Also Available from Pushkin Press
• About the Publisher
• Copyright