1
In pre-revolutionary Russia, Teffi’s fame could only be compared to that of Mikhail Zhvanetsky in the 1970s. There wasn’t a single cultured person who hadn’t heard of Teffi. Before leaving Russia she had published fourteen books — mostly humorous short stories. Mikhail Tsetlin, also known as the poet Amari, wrote: “Her fame at that time could without exaggeration be called glory: in those years there were ‘Teffi’ perfumes, ‘Teffi’ sweets. Who didn’t know and repeat her catchphrases? Who doesn’t remember how, during the First World War, when there was a shortage of meat and people ate horseflesh, the cook in one of her feuilletons announced dinner with the words: ‘Madam, the horses have been served!’”
In pre-revolutionary Russia, Teffi’s fame could only be compared to that of Mikhail Zhvanetsky in the 1970s. There wasn’t a single cultured person who hadn’t heard of Teffi. Before leaving Russia she had published fourteen books — mostly humorous short stories. Mikhail Tsetlin, also known as the poet Amari, wrote: “Her fame at that time could without exaggeration be called glory: in those years there were ‘Teffi’ perfumes, ‘Teffi’ sweets. Who didn’t know and repeat her catchphrases? Who doesn’t remember how, during the First World War, when there was a shortage of meat and people ate horseflesh, the cook in one of her feuilletons announced dinner with the words: ‘Madam, the horses have been served!’”
2
And so, as a typical representative of the Russian intelligentsia, the Silver Age writer Nadezhda Teffi was, by the laws of the genre, supposed to leave the stage even before the start of the NEP. Life seemed to hold only weakly to these “fragments of the empire” — the poets and writers who had jumped off the historical locomotive before reaching old age. Exceptions were few. A long life for a Russian writer is so uncharacteristic that it looks downright suspicious — why on earth? Russian writers did not live long, considering it almost indecent.3
Nevertheless, Nadezhda Teffi died in Paris in 1952 at the age of eighty and is buried in the famous Russian cemetery of Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois. They say a long life is granted to those who have been “buried alive.” Rumours of Teffi’s death circulated in émigré circles long before her actual demise. Nadezhda Alexandrovna was a very sensible person. Learning of her own “untimely” death, she merely laughed: “It’s pleasant sometimes to read one’s own obituary.”
And so, as a typical representative of the Russian intelligentsia, the Silver Age writer Nadezhda Teffi was, by the laws of the genre, supposed to leave the stage even before the start of the NEP. Life seemed to hold only weakly to these “fragments of the empire” — the poets and writers who had jumped off the historical locomotive before reaching old age. Exceptions were few. A long life for a Russian writer is so uncharacteristic that it looks downright suspicious — why on earth? Russian writers did not live long, considering it almost indecent.3
Nevertheless, Nadezhda Teffi died in Paris in 1952 at the age of eighty and is buried in the famous Russian cemetery of Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois. They say a long life is granted to those who have been “buried alive.” Rumours of Teffi’s death circulated in émigré circles long before her actual demise. Nadezhda Alexandrovna was a very sensible person. Learning of her own “untimely” death, she merely laughed: “It’s pleasant sometimes to read one’s own obituary.”
4
She lived a long, long life, despite the fact that she could have perished at any moment as a typical “counter-revolutionary,” walking under the shadow of death like Doctor Zhivago, mixing with people so “serious” that they could shoot you, as the saying goes, on a whim. And yet she did not perish. Why?
She lived a long, long life, despite the fact that she could have perished at any moment as a typical “counter-revolutionary,” walking under the shadow of death like Doctor Zhivago, mixing with people so “serious” that they could shoot you, as the saying goes, on a whim. And yet she did not perish. Why?
5
They say that the pseudonym a writer chooses becomes the starting point not only of his literary but also of his human destiny. Russian writers loved pseudonyms, treating them with mystical seriousness — their real names did not satisfy them; they wanted better ones. Only Tolstoy walked around like Ivan Susanin in his cotton-wool beard and family name — understandable, after all, he was a count. People of humbler origin gravitated towards names that were euphonious and significant. Andrei Bely — doesn’t it sound fine? And Sasha Chorny? It’s clear: who would want to sign himself “Bugayev” or, worse still, “Glickberg”?
They say that the pseudonym a writer chooses becomes the starting point not only of his literary but also of his human destiny. Russian writers loved pseudonyms, treating them with mystical seriousness — their real names did not satisfy them; they wanted better ones. Only Tolstoy walked around like Ivan Susanin in his cotton-wool beard and family name — understandable, after all, he was a count. People of humbler origin gravitated towards names that were euphonious and significant. Andrei Bely — doesn’t it sound fine? And Sasha Chorny? It’s clear: who would want to sign himself “Bugayev” or, worse still, “Glickberg”?
6
Nadezhda Teffi was born under the surname Lokhvitskaya and, after marrying, became Buchinskaya. Marriage did her no good and quickly bored her. After enduring about ten years of married life, she ran away from her Polish husband and entered Russian literature under the name Teffi, dumping her three children on a governess. Most women successful in literature have a pretty mixed-up personal life.
Nadezhda Teffi was born under the surname Lokhvitskaya and, after marrying, became Buchinskaya. Marriage did her no good and quickly bored her. After enduring about ten years of married life, she ran away from her Polish husband and entered Russian literature under the name Teffi, dumping her three children on a governess. Most women successful in literature have a pretty mixed-up personal life.
7
Teffi did her best to keep the details of her private life from discussion. It is well known, however, that she was a mademoiselle from a very good family. Her father was a famous St Petersburg lawyer, professor and silver-tongued orator. Teffi’s mother was French — she passed on to the girl her French playfulness and spontaneity. Once, while still a teenager, Teffi went to visit Leo Tolstoy with the sole purpose of asking that beard to rewrite War and Peace so that Bolkonsky wouldn’t die for nothing. She felt sorry for Bolkonsky.
Teffi did her best to keep the details of her private life from discussion. It is well known, however, that she was a mademoiselle from a very good family. Her father was a famous St Petersburg lawyer, professor and silver-tongued orator. Teffi’s mother was French — she passed on to the girl her French playfulness and spontaneity. Once, while still a teenager, Teffi went to visit Leo Tolstoy with the sole purpose of asking that beard to rewrite War and Peace so that Bolkonsky wouldn’t die for nothing. She felt sorry for Bolkonsky.
8
Teffi’s sister Mirra Lokhvitskaya also wrote. She became a well-known poetess — the “Russian Sappho” — earlier than Teffi, and it was precisely because of her that Teffi had to take a pseudonym so that the two literary ladies would not be confused. Incidentally, Teffi herself was constantly confused about the authorship of the pseudonym. She periodically gave two different explanations on the subject, apparently depending on her mood. Sometimes she said she had known a happy simpleton named Steffi. Believing that stupid people are usually happy, she thought that happiness would spill over onto her if she called herself Teffi, “out of delicacy” dropping the first letter. In short, she shrouded it in mist.
Teffi’s sister Mirra Lokhvitskaya also wrote. She became a well-known poetess — the “Russian Sappho” — earlier than Teffi, and it was precisely because of her that Teffi had to take a pseudonym so that the two literary ladies would not be confused. Incidentally, Teffi herself was constantly confused about the authorship of the pseudonym. She periodically gave two different explanations on the subject, apparently depending on her mood. Sometimes she said she had known a happy simpleton named Steffi. Believing that stupid people are usually happy, she thought that happiness would spill over onto her if she called herself Teffi, “out of delicacy” dropping the first letter. In short, she shrouded it in mist.
9
Yet neither the pseudonym nor the good family saved Teffi from personal disaster. Nadezhda Alexandrovna’s marriage fell apart by 1900. She managed to become a mother three times without ever growing into the maternal instinct. Her husband often reproached her, saying she would rather cuddle a plush teddy bear than caress her own children.
Yet neither the pseudonym nor the good family saved Teffi from personal disaster. Nadezhda Alexandrovna’s marriage fell apart by 1900. She managed to become a mother three times without ever growing into the maternal instinct. Her husband often reproached her, saying she would rather cuddle a plush teddy bear than caress her own children.
10
It was with that old teddy bear under her arm that she fled from her husband and children to St Petersburg. And although (horror of horrors) the offended husband imposed a veto on any further contact between the runaway wife and the children… yet Emperor Nicholas II so highly valued the creative contribution of the writer Teffi to Russian literature that, while preparing a jubilee literary almanac for the tercentenary of the House of Romanov, he declared that in this edition, if propriety allowed, he would like to see only Teffi. “Teffi! Only her. No one else is needed. Teffi alone!” Had he fallen in love, or what?
It was with that old teddy bear under her arm that she fled from her husband and children to St Petersburg. And although (horror of horrors) the offended husband imposed a veto on any further contact between the runaway wife and the children… yet Emperor Nicholas II so highly valued the creative contribution of the writer Teffi to Russian literature that, while preparing a jubilee literary almanac for the tercentenary of the House of Romanov, he declared that in this edition, if propriety allowed, he would like to see only Teffi. “Teffi! Only her. No one else is needed. Teffi alone!” Had he fallen in love, or what?
11
According to the second version, the pseudonym, which sounded like the name of a caramel, was taken from Rudyard Kipling. That was the name of one of his minor heroines from the Stone Age — “the Girl who had to be well spanked for being such a naughty thing.” In the five pages of the story this little girl manages to set two hairy tribes by the ears. The tale was called “How the First Letter Was Written.” Anyone who wishes can still find little Teffi in Kipling today.
According to the second version, the pseudonym, which sounded like the name of a caramel, was taken from Rudyard Kipling. That was the name of one of his minor heroines from the Stone Age — “the Girl who had to be well spanked for being such a naughty thing.” In the five pages of the story this little girl manages to set two hairy tribes by the ears. The tale was called “How the First Letter Was Written.” Anyone who wishes can still find little Teffi in Kipling today.
12
It turns out that from the very beginning Teffi wanted to make it clear to the attentive reader that he was dealing with an author who was not grown-up, not high-flown, who did not take herself seriously and who looked at the world for something to laugh at. When talking about herself, Teffi invariably lowered the pathos and chuckled. For women, especially blondes, this is such a rare quality — roughly like the skill of parallel-parking in reverse without consequences. Psychologists say that the ability to make people laugh at oneself according to the scheme “I am funny!” is a sign of a very strong personality. Contemporaries asserted that Teffi’s personality was very large and strong. How to measure it? Whom to take as a standard? Well, take at least Balmont, not to mention Severyanin. Measured in Balmonts, it comes out, probably, three or four. A personality with the strength of three Balmonts.
It turns out that from the very beginning Teffi wanted to make it clear to the attentive reader that he was dealing with an author who was not grown-up, not high-flown, who did not take herself seriously and who looked at the world for something to laugh at. When talking about herself, Teffi invariably lowered the pathos and chuckled. For women, especially blondes, this is such a rare quality — roughly like the skill of parallel-parking in reverse without consequences. Psychologists say that the ability to make people laugh at oneself according to the scheme “I am funny!” is a sign of a very strong personality. Contemporaries asserted that Teffi’s personality was very large and strong. How to measure it? Whom to take as a standard? Well, take at least Balmont, not to mention Severyanin. Measured in Balmonts, it comes out, probably, three or four. A personality with the strength of three Balmonts.
13
Yet even in her own memoirs Teffi tells very little about herself. Her narrative constantly slides off onto the people and events around her. And that is understandable. The fact is that people are funny. Everyone is funny, not only the naturally arrogant writers who are funny beyond all measure, especially modern ones. We are all so funny that we are incapable of noticing it ourselves, like fish in water. And so we live, funny… like Teffi’s characters. Most people, suspecting that they have done something funny, strain every last effort to turn it into drama instead of calmly and with taste playing out the comedy of their lives. Teffi from the outset correctly assessed her strong and weak sides and, like a clever blonde, gave her life the genre of tragic farce.
Yet even in her own memoirs Teffi tells very little about herself. Her narrative constantly slides off onto the people and events around her. And that is understandable. The fact is that people are funny. Everyone is funny, not only the naturally arrogant writers who are funny beyond all measure, especially modern ones. We are all so funny that we are incapable of noticing it ourselves, like fish in water. And so we live, funny… like Teffi’s characters. Most people, suspecting that they have done something funny, strain every last effort to turn it into drama instead of calmly and with taste playing out the comedy of their lives. Teffi from the outset correctly assessed her strong and weak sides and, like a clever blonde, gave her life the genre of tragic farce.
14
In the black-and-white photographs of those years this is completely unnoticeable, but Nadezhda Teffi was in fact a “blonde.” The conflict of genres consisted in the fact that she was not a beauty at all and secretly suffered because of it. She even rushed into marriage with the first man who proposed, thinking that a plain girl like her might not be invited a second time. Clever women are never beautiful, except episodically — from a good mood or flushed cheeks. And a clever blonde is altogether some kind of technical glitch.
In the black-and-white photographs of those years this is completely unnoticeable, but Nadezhda Teffi was in fact a “blonde.” The conflict of genres consisted in the fact that she was not a beauty at all and secretly suffered because of it. She even rushed into marriage with the first man who proposed, thinking that a plain girl like her might not be invited a second time. Clever women are never beautiful, except episodically — from a good mood or flushed cheeks. And a clever blonde is altogether some kind of technical glitch.
15
One’s own home
One’s own home
16
Life in the revolutionary years was funny and with every year became funnier still. And in Teffi’s rendering the deadly dangerous events of her own life look like a picnic on a river tram. She writes: “Through the black night streets where passers-by were strangled and robbed, we ran to listen to the operetta Silva, or in shabby cafés packed with an audience in torn overcoats that smelled of wet dog we listened to young poets reading themselves and one another, howling in hungry voices. These young poets were then in fashion, and even Bryusov was not ashamed to head with his haughty person some ‘erotic evening’ of theirs!
Life in the revolutionary years was funny and with every year became funnier still. And in Teffi’s rendering the deadly dangerous events of her own life look like a picnic on a river tram. She writes: “Through the black night streets where passers-by were strangled and robbed, we ran to listen to the operetta Silva, or in shabby cafés packed with an audience in torn overcoats that smelled of wet dog we listened to young poets reading themselves and one another, howling in hungry voices. These young poets were then in fashion, and even Bryusov was not ashamed to head with his haughty person some ‘erotic evening’ of theirs!
17
Everyone wanted to be ‘among people’… Alone at home it was terrifying.
Everyone wanted to be ‘among people’… Alone at home it was terrifying.
18
One constantly had to know what was happening, to learn about one another.
One constantly had to know what was happening, to learn about one another.
19
Sometimes someone would disappear, and it was hard to find out where he was. In Kiev? Or somewhere from which one does not return?
Sometimes someone would disappear, and it was hard to find out where he was. In Kiev? Or somewhere from which one does not return?
20
From Petersburg came word: a well-known actress had been arrested for reading my stories. In the Cheka they forced her to repeat the story before the grim judges. Can you imagine with what cheerful merriment this humorous monologue was recited between two escorts with bayonets. And suddenly — oh, joyful miracle! — after the first few trembling phrases the face of one of the judges spreads into a smile.
From Petersburg came word: a well-known actress had been arrested for reading my stories. In the Cheka they forced her to repeat the story before the grim judges. Can you imagine with what cheerful merriment this humorous monologue was recited between two escorts with bayonets. And suddenly — oh, joyful miracle! — after the first few trembling phrases the face of one of the judges spreads into a smile.
21
‘I heard this story at an evening at Comrade Lenin’s. It is completely apolitical.’ Just like that. Pure chance! And if that judge had had a worse memory? What awaited the poor actress? Do you think she was destined for a box of ‘drunken cherry’ sweets, so fashionable in those murky times? It’s funny.”
‘I heard this story at an evening at Comrade Lenin’s. It is completely apolitical.’ Just like that. Pure chance! And if that judge had had a worse memory? What awaited the poor actress? Do you think she was destined for a box of ‘drunken cherry’ sweets, so fashionable in those murky times? It’s funny.”
22
But funny only after the fact. That is how a soldier laughs — returning home and leaning his rolled greatcoat and boots against the wall, he tells of all his “adventures” and laughs in order to drown out the cold, nasty horror of the memories, like chilled sweat. It has long been observed that only laughter can overcome fear. Therefore there is nothing particularly surprising in the fact that in those years Russia was abundant in the offspring of laughter-loving writers such as Averchenko or Zoshchenko (they still declined the name then). All of them came to a bad end… except Teffi.
But funny only after the fact. That is how a soldier laughs — returning home and leaning his rolled greatcoat and boots against the wall, he tells of all his “adventures” and laughs in order to drown out the cold, nasty horror of the memories, like chilled sweat. It has long been observed that only laughter can overcome fear. Therefore there is nothing particularly surprising in the fact that in those years Russia was abundant in the offspring of laughter-loving writers such as Averchenko or Zoshchenko (they still declined the name then). All of them came to a bad end… except Teffi.
23
She surfaced and swam out even in the most hopeless situations. For example, in Odessa besieged by the Reds, where bandit gangs from Moldavanka were rampaging, she found herself alone in an empty hotel. Even the servants had fled to their homes — they were locals; where were the out-of-town temporary lodgers supposed to run? Odessa was then for many émigrés the last point before departure to Constantinople. But the funny Teffi believed with all the childish strength of her heart that she was in Odessa on tour, as the author of cheerful plays performed on stage. She had no intention of emigrating. It was pure miracle that she survived then.
She surfaced and swam out even in the most hopeless situations. For example, in Odessa besieged by the Reds, where bandit gangs from Moldavanka were rampaging, she found herself alone in an empty hotel. Even the servants had fled to their homes — they were locals; where were the out-of-town temporary lodgers supposed to run? Odessa was then for many émigrés the last point before departure to Constantinople. But the funny Teffi believed with all the childish strength of her heart that she was in Odessa on tour, as the author of cheerful plays performed on stage. She had no intention of emigrating. It was pure miracle that she survived then.
24
Hundreds of Russians — cultured and not so cultured, aristocrats and ordinary folk, petty landowners — were then rescued by Odessa. Stuffing family diamonds into their cheek pouches and other secret corners, Russian aristocrats saved themselves by swimming. Ah, Odessa, mother of emigration, the loophole to Paris. This city with its chestnuts and boulevards was itself a little Paris, only of the feminine gender. Many years after that terrible flight, in already thoroughly Soviet Odessa there still lingered a smell of Paris. Apparently a draught.
Hundreds of Russians — cultured and not so cultured, aristocrats and ordinary folk, petty landowners — were then rescued by Odessa. Stuffing family diamonds into their cheek pouches and other secret corners, Russian aristocrats saved themselves by swimming. Ah, Odessa, mother of emigration, the loophole to Paris. This city with its chestnuts and boulevards was itself a little Paris, only of the feminine gender. Many years after that terrible flight, in already thoroughly Soviet Odessa there still lingered a smell of Paris. Apparently a draught.
25
Clarity as one of the forms of fog
Clarity as one of the forms of fog
26
Russian writers were very fond of all sorts of murky sciences such as spiritualism and magic mixed with mysticism. In those times, when even the cinema kept quiet in a rag, there was little to occupy oneself with besides writing, and everyone looked for something to amuse themselves. Declamation of the latest Balmonts was of course an entertaining occupation, especially for the declaimer himself, but even public appearances sometimes became tiresome. Mysticism lay on the surface. Even clever people fell into it as into a coma. For example, Zinaida Gippius liked to press her infernal image of the “White Deviless,” as she was called in society. Although she was merely a quarrelsome old woman who loved to set at loggerheads the guests of a literary salon who had come peacefully to listen to little verses. Writers loved to ascribe secret abilities to themselves. True, they all went into the earth up to the very crown of their heads, having failed to “conjure” for themselves either an extra crust of bread in a hungry year or the favour of the Cheka. As for who really possessed certain magical powers, one should perhaps judge by the final result. Who survived? Pushkin?27
The question of where Teffi got her magic has a simple answer; one need only dig a little deeper into her biography. Teffi received her abilities by inheritance — her great-grandfather Konrad Lokhvitsky (1774–1830) was already writing mystical verse in the time of Alexander I. The source of the power is lost in the depths of the centuries. They say there existed a family legend about a hereditary magical power that would be transmitted along the male line until a woman took possession of the gift and paid for it with loneliness. Teffi’s loneliness, with three children and a crowd of admirers of her talent, was obvious. All those who took her for a sweet jester, judging by her texts, were often disappointed upon meeting her in person — she was a very sad woman. And painfully nervous.
Russian writers were very fond of all sorts of murky sciences such as spiritualism and magic mixed with mysticism. In those times, when even the cinema kept quiet in a rag, there was little to occupy oneself with besides writing, and everyone looked for something to amuse themselves. Declamation of the latest Balmonts was of course an entertaining occupation, especially for the declaimer himself, but even public appearances sometimes became tiresome. Mysticism lay on the surface. Even clever people fell into it as into a coma. For example, Zinaida Gippius liked to press her infernal image of the “White Deviless,” as she was called in society. Although she was merely a quarrelsome old woman who loved to set at loggerheads the guests of a literary salon who had come peacefully to listen to little verses. Writers loved to ascribe secret abilities to themselves. True, they all went into the earth up to the very crown of their heads, having failed to “conjure” for themselves either an extra crust of bread in a hungry year or the favour of the Cheka. As for who really possessed certain magical powers, one should perhaps judge by the final result. Who survived? Pushkin?27
The question of where Teffi got her magic has a simple answer; one need only dig a little deeper into her biography. Teffi received her abilities by inheritance — her great-grandfather Konrad Lokhvitsky (1774–1830) was already writing mystical verse in the time of Alexander I. The source of the power is lost in the depths of the centuries. They say there existed a family legend about a hereditary magical power that would be transmitted along the male line until a woman took possession of the gift and paid for it with loneliness. Teffi’s loneliness, with three children and a crowd of admirers of her talent, was obvious. All those who took her for a sweet jester, judging by her texts, were often disappointed upon meeting her in person — she was a very sad woman. And painfully nervous.
28
Teffi many times had occasion to display her magnetic and prophetic abilities, unlike those who in reality possessed no abilities at all but merely dreamed of becoming famous as a magician and sorcerer. She also met the then well-known magician and clairvoyant Armand Duclos — a sort of Wolf Messing who also gave concerts and entertained the public with predictions. Once he predicted Petliura — he would enter the city in three days. And indeed Petliura came. Did he guess correctly?
Teffi many times had occasion to display her magnetic and prophetic abilities, unlike those who in reality possessed no abilities at all but merely dreamed of becoming famous as a magician and sorcerer. She also met the then well-known magician and clairvoyant Armand Duclos — a sort of Wolf Messing who also gave concerts and entertained the public with predictions. Once he predicted Petliura — he would enter the city in three days. And indeed Petliura came. Did he guess correctly?
29
Teffi happened to attend Duclos’s performances still in Moscow, and with all her common sense she could never decide for herself whether this man was simply fooling around or truly possessed power. Teffi noted that he often correctly “predicted” or guessed the right answer. When she became personally acquainted with Duclos, he confessed that he always used “home-made preparations,” that is, he simply hoodwinked the public. Yet in the course of a performance he, it seems without noticing it himself, would fall into a hypnotic trance. “He was a very young boy, no more than twenty, very pale and thin, with a handsome, tired face,” she writes of Duclos. “He never spoke of his origins, spoke French not badly. ‘I lived many, many years ago. My name was Cagliostro…’ But he lied lazily and reluctantly. He seems to have been simply a Jewish boy from Odessa.”
Teffi happened to attend Duclos’s performances still in Moscow, and with all her common sense she could never decide for herself whether this man was simply fooling around or truly possessed power. Teffi noted that he often correctly “predicted” or guessed the right answer. When she became personally acquainted with Duclos, he confessed that he always used “home-made preparations,” that is, he simply hoodwinked the public. Yet in the course of a performance he, it seems without noticing it himself, would fall into a hypnotic trance. “He was a very young boy, no more than twenty, very pale and thin, with a handsome, tired face,” she writes of Duclos. “He never spoke of his origins, spoke French not badly. ‘I lived many, many years ago. My name was Cagliostro…’ But he lied lazily and reluctantly. He seems to have been simply a Jewish boy from Odessa.”
30
And although Armand himself, quiet and half-asleep, was not a practical man and was quite indifferent to his successes, in Moscow Lenin took an extreme interest in him and twice summoned him to the Kremlin to clarify his own fate. Duclos avoided questions about those séances with the leader of the world proletariat. His impresario, however, related that he was terrified when he saw at a séance how “it came over” Armand — he completely forgot whom he was dealing with. Friendship with Lenin did not pass without cost for Duclos. A few months later Armand was shot. In those years the magic of the revolution always took its own.31
They say the ocean carries the drowned…
And although Armand himself, quiet and half-asleep, was not a practical man and was quite indifferent to his successes, in Moscow Lenin took an extreme interest in him and twice summoned him to the Kremlin to clarify his own fate. Duclos avoided questions about those séances with the leader of the world proletariat. His impresario, however, related that he was terrified when he saw at a séance how “it came over” Armand — he completely forgot whom he was dealing with. Friendship with Lenin did not pass without cost for Duclos. A few months later Armand was shot. In those years the magic of the revolution always took its own.31
They say the ocean carries the drowned…
32
Of course Teffi was not alone in her fascination with the other world. Mysticism permeated all émigré circles. People without a homeland unconsciously wanted to take at least some kind of support in exchange. Even if such a shaky one. Everyone’s mood was gloomy; belief in the bad came quickly and without doubt. The Merezhkovskys were no better. They loved to talk about all sorts of undead, werewolves, corpses, drowned men. Once on the beach Teffi overheard a conversation about some ship that had sunk near these shores, apparently having taken part in a naval battle or simply struck a mine. That same evening, for romantic purposes, she was soaking her heels in the water on the same shore and admiring the surf. In the dusk she was struck by some indistinct shadows resembling the sweeps of widely outstretched arms from the black water.
Of course Teffi was not alone in her fascination with the other world. Mysticism permeated all émigré circles. People without a homeland unconsciously wanted to take at least some kind of support in exchange. Even if such a shaky one. Everyone’s mood was gloomy; belief in the bad came quickly and without doubt. The Merezhkovskys were no better. They loved to talk about all sorts of undead, werewolves, corpses, drowned men. Once on the beach Teffi overheard a conversation about some ship that had sunk near these shores, apparently having taken part in a naval battle or simply struck a mine. That same evening, for romantic purposes, she was soaking her heels in the water on the same shore and admiring the surf. In the dusk she was struck by some indistinct shadows resembling the sweeps of widely outstretched arms from the black water.
33
“Near the distant rock widely outstretched arms quickly shot up. As if someone had been flung out of the black water. They shot up and disappeared. And then by another stone, to the left, the same arms shot up, spread wide and disappeared. And again in the former place. And then still closer to the shore. And all this so quickly that one could barely catch the movement, almost without catching the form…” The German soldiers sitting on the shore, who until then had been cheerfully telling one another all sorts of obscenities, suddenly fell silent in fright, jumped up and ran away.
“Near the distant rock widely outstretched arms quickly shot up. As if someone had been flung out of the black water. They shot up and disappeared. And then by another stone, to the left, the same arms shot up, spread wide and disappeared. And again in the former place. And then still closer to the shore. And all this so quickly that one could barely catch the movement, almost without catching the form…” The German soldiers sitting on the shore, who until then had been cheerfully telling one another all sorts of obscenities, suddenly fell silent in fright, jumped up and ran away.
34
Merezhkovsky and Gippius, to whom Teffi told what she had seen, reacted as to something banal. “What is there surprising about it? Those were simply dead men. Well of course,” Zinaida Nikolayevna calmly confirmed. “They drowned, after all. Those were the drowned.”
Merezhkovsky and Gippius, to whom Teffi told what she had seen, reacted as to something banal. “What is there surprising about it? Those were simply dead men. Well of course,” Zinaida Nikolayevna calmly confirmed. “They drowned, after all. Those were the drowned.”
35
Having lost the ground under their feet, these refugees would be unable to settle even in peaceful life, where one is not shot for wearing a pince-nez. And no force would help them, not even magical, not even the power of spiritualist séances would be powerless. Already on the ship it was clear, when elegant gentlemen were shifting coal or washing the deck as payment for passage, that they were not ready for a life in which one would have to work and would be unable to resign themselves to the fact that by the will of evil forces they were turning from aristocrats into rootless wanderers. Standing on the deck of the ship, Teffi composed the words into a poem that the most famous singer of the emigration, Alexander Vertinsky, would later perform with such success:
Having lost the ground under their feet, these refugees would be unable to settle even in peaceful life, where one is not shot for wearing a pince-nez. And no force would help them, not even magical, not even the power of spiritualist séances would be powerless. Already on the ship it was clear, when elegant gentlemen were shifting coal or washing the deck as payment for passage, that they were not ready for a life in which one would have to work and would be unable to resign themselves to the fact that by the will of evil forces they were turning from aristocrats into rootless wanderers. Standing on the deck of the ship, Teffi composed the words into a poem that the most famous singer of the emigration, Alexander Vertinsky, would later perform with such success:
36
“To the cape of joy, to the cliffs of sorrow,
To the islands of lilac birds…
It makes no difference where we moor,
We shall not raise our weary lids…”
“To the cape of joy, to the cliffs of sorrow,
To the islands of lilac birds…
It makes no difference where we moor,
We shall not raise our weary lids…”
37
A few years later these lines, already set to music, she would hear from the stage of the Salle Gaveau. Nadezhda Teffi was one of the few in the émigré milieu who managed to survive without exchanging the role of aristocrat for that of dishwasher. Her fate seems so complete, as if tied with a bow, just like her pseudonym in the shape of a sweet. What magnetism kept this fate afloat? She reached Paris just before the New Year of 1920. She settled in a small hotel, the Vignon. Having grown a little used to the new city, Teffi organised something like a literary salon at her place, which was frequented by the writer Alexei Tolstoy and the satirical poet Don-Aminado, the actress Tatyana Pavlova, the artist A. E. Yakovlev and Count P. N. Ignatiev. The first story she published abroad was that very “Que faire?”, about an émigré general who, after admiring the rich mansions and the dressed-up crowd of carefree Parisians, kept asking in the middle of a Parisian square: “All this is of course very fine, gentlemen! Very fine indeed. But… que faire? Faire-to que?” Indeed, what is one to do? How many Russian émigrés day after day asked themselves this question and for weeks, years found no answer.
A few years later these lines, already set to music, she would hear from the stage of the Salle Gaveau. Nadezhda Teffi was one of the few in the émigré milieu who managed to survive without exchanging the role of aristocrat for that of dishwasher. Her fate seems so complete, as if tied with a bow, just like her pseudonym in the shape of a sweet. What magnetism kept this fate afloat? She reached Paris just before the New Year of 1920. She settled in a small hotel, the Vignon. Having grown a little used to the new city, Teffi organised something like a literary salon at her place, which was frequented by the writer Alexei Tolstoy and the satirical poet Don-Aminado, the actress Tatyana Pavlova, the artist A. E. Yakovlev and Count P. N. Ignatiev. The first story she published abroad was that very “Que faire?”, about an émigré general who, after admiring the rich mansions and the dressed-up crowd of carefree Parisians, kept asking in the middle of a Parisian square: “All this is of course very fine, gentlemen! Very fine indeed. But… que faire? Faire-to que?” Indeed, what is one to do? How many Russian émigrés day after day asked themselves this question and for weeks, years found no answer.
38
In France Nadezhda Alexandrovna remembered her husband and children, of whom she seemed to have forgotten even to think. In any case she tried to find traces of them. She discovered that all four had long been in New York — the father had managed in time to save the children from Russia. Her eldest daughter Valeria, the only one of the three who remembered her mother a little, entered into correspondence with her and even visited her in Paris. The other two children did not forgive the separation — the force of the family prophecy had hardened their hearts — the youth Yan and the girl Elena until their mother’s death never spoke a single word to her.
In France Nadezhda Alexandrovna remembered her husband and children, of whom she seemed to have forgotten even to think. In any case she tried to find traces of them. She discovered that all four had long been in New York — the father had managed in time to save the children from Russia. Her eldest daughter Valeria, the only one of the three who remembered her mother a little, entered into correspondence with her and even visited her in Paris. The other two children did not forgive the separation — the force of the family prophecy had hardened their hearts — the youth Yan and the girl Elena until their mother’s death never spoke a single word to her.
39
In Paris Nadezhda Alexandrovna lived on the money of her common-law husband Pavel Tickston — the son of a manufacturer who had once had some production facilities in Kaluga and was rather well-to-do. Because of the world crisis these capitals collapsed, Pavel Alexandrovich suffered a stroke, and the benefit of the marriage became no greater than that of an old collar. Nadezhda Alexandrovna nursed her husband for a long time. Despite the fact that she was left completely without means of subsistence and constantly wondered whether she should not finally take up laundry work. What was there to put on airs about when former generals were turning taxi steering-wheels and former actresses were freezing in brothels, while lawyers washed dishes in restaurants. But an unknown force continued to protect Teffi, apparently already with its last strength. It was an elderly magical force; it was not equal to much. It was enough that it timely turned Teffi’s thoughts away from returning to the homeland in, say, the 1930s. Teffi was simply superhumanly lucky that it never entered her head, as it did Tsvetaeva’s, to undertake a return. Teffi remained in France. Having survived the fascist occupation of France, during which Nadezhda Alexandrovna suffered no harm, she lived out her last years already very ill and elderly, having outlived almost all her friends and acquaintances, but with an old and very fat cat whom she considered magical and Egyptian. The sacred animal ate for three, taking from its mistress the last three francs of the dinner money. She lived in house No. 59 on Rue Boissière, on a tiny pension which the well-known millionaire and philanthropist S. S. Atran paid her out of charitable considerations.
In Paris Nadezhda Alexandrovna lived on the money of her common-law husband Pavel Tickston — the son of a manufacturer who had once had some production facilities in Kaluga and was rather well-to-do. Because of the world crisis these capitals collapsed, Pavel Alexandrovich suffered a stroke, and the benefit of the marriage became no greater than that of an old collar. Nadezhda Alexandrovna nursed her husband for a long time. Despite the fact that she was left completely without means of subsistence and constantly wondered whether she should not finally take up laundry work. What was there to put on airs about when former generals were turning taxi steering-wheels and former actresses were freezing in brothels, while lawyers washed dishes in restaurants. But an unknown force continued to protect Teffi, apparently already with its last strength. It was an elderly magical force; it was not equal to much. It was enough that it timely turned Teffi’s thoughts away from returning to the homeland in, say, the 1930s. Teffi was simply superhumanly lucky that it never entered her head, as it did Tsvetaeva’s, to undertake a return. Teffi remained in France. Having survived the fascist occupation of France, during which Nadezhda Alexandrovna suffered no harm, she lived out her last years already very ill and elderly, having outlived almost all her friends and acquaintances, but with an old and very fat cat whom she considered magical and Egyptian. The sacred animal ate for three, taking from its mistress the last three francs of the dinner money. She lived in house No. 59 on Rue Boissière, on a tiny pension which the well-known millionaire and philanthropist S. S. Atran paid her out of charitable considerations.
40
They died one after another — first Atran, then his charity, then Teffi, then the old cat, and last of all the magical power of Teffi’s word faded.
They died one after another — first Atran, then his charity, then Teffi, then the old cat, and last of all the magical power of Teffi’s word faded.
41
“Alas, the most remarkable quality of the late Teffi — her brilliant, incomparable wit — belongs to those qualities most easily forgotten in literature, becoming incomprehensible outside their own time and milieu. Perhaps a legend will live of Teffi as one of the wittiest women of our time when her catchphrases, sketches and feuilletons have been forgotten,” wrote Mikhail Tsetlin in an obituary. This was that very premature obituary over which Nadezhda Alexandrovna still laughed so much and loved to re-read. What was funny about this obituary was also the fact that Misha Tsetlin himself died in 1945, seven years before Teffi’s death. He could in no way have created this artefact in good time. The deceased saw the deceased off. The dead man mourned the dead man.
“Alas, the most remarkable quality of the late Teffi — her brilliant, incomparable wit — belongs to those qualities most easily forgotten in literature, becoming incomprehensible outside their own time and milieu. Perhaps a legend will live of Teffi as one of the wittiest women of our time when her catchphrases, sketches and feuilletons have been forgotten,” wrote Mikhail Tsetlin in an obituary. This was that very premature obituary over which Nadezhda Alexandrovna still laughed so much and loved to re-read. What was funny about this obituary was also the fact that Misha Tsetlin himself died in 1945, seven years before Teffi’s death. He could in no way have created this artefact in good time. The deceased saw the deceased off. The dead man mourned the dead man.
