Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople

N. A. Leikin

VISITING THE TURKS

A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople

A fast train had just left the vast glass-covered railway yard in Buda Pest and was speeding south towards the Serbian border.

In the first class carriage, in a separate compartment, already fairly littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather fat man with a brown, trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also beginning to loosen and expand in width. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin cap on his head, the lady is in a camel-colored woolen dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in a felt hat with the erect wings of some birds. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had a down pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Based on these pillows, anyone who has been abroad at least once would now say that they are Russian, because no one but Russians travel abroad with down pillows. That the man and lady were Russian could be guessed by the lambskin cap on the man’s head, and finally by the metal enamel teapot standing on a raised table by the carriage window. Light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the kettle. In Buda-Pest, in the railway cafeteria, they had just brewed some tea in a kettle.

And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had already gone abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, vowing to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.

At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich picked his teeth with a feather and looked out the window at the fields spread out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and razed, smooth as billiards, with stripes of winter crops already beginning to turn green. Glafirazhe Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her voyage bag, opened it, took powder from there and powdered her flushed face, looking in the mirror embedded in the lid, and finally said:

And why did you give me this Hungarian wine? His face is so radiant.

It’s impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine! Nikolai Ivanovich answered. “Otherwise someone at home will ask if they drank Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom?” - and what will we answer! I even deliberately ate this very paprika with klobs. Klobs, klobs... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs - zraza, chopped zraza.

Firstly, in our country steaks with onions and potato sauce are called not just klobs, but schnell-klobs, objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly...

As if it doesn't matter!

No, it doesn’t matter... Schnell in German means soon, in a hurry... And if klobs without schnell...

Well, you really love to argue! - Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation. - Still, in this Hungarian kingdom they feed well. Look how well we were fed at the Buda-Pest station! And what a gorgeous restaurant. Well done gypsies.

It's like they're all gypsies here? - Glafira Semyonovna doubted.

Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gakhach... cr... gr... th... throat. Exactly like our Chaldeans in various country dens. And they have saucer-sized eyes, and black faces.

You're lying, you're lying! At the stations we saw a lot of blond people.

So, after all, in our gypsy choirs there are not black gypsies. What if some one is born not like his mother, not like his father, but like a passing young man, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait, the further we go, the nastier everyone will be,” Nikolai Ivanovich said authoritatively, moved his lips and added: “However, my mouth is burning from this paprika.”

Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.

And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she said.

What rubbish this is! A plant, a vegetable... Don’t sit everywhere like you, just on broth and steak. I went to travel, to educate myself, so as not to be a wild person and to know everything. We are going to unfamiliar states on purpose to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary and - whatever is Hungarian, serve it.

However, fishzupe demanded at the buffet, but did not eat.

But still I tried. I tried it and I know that their fish soup is rubbish. Fishzupe - fish soup. I thought that it was something like our fish soup: or a village fish, because the Hungarians have the big Danube River close by, so I thought that there was a lot of fish of all kinds, but it comes out completely opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, or else from fish heads and tails. There were some gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery... sour... Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, winced and, taking a glass from the corner on the sofa, began to pour himself some tea from the kettle.

Br... Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, convulsively shrugged her shoulders and added: “Wait... they’ll feed you some other crocodile if you ask for various unfamiliar dishes.”

Well, so what?...I’ll be very glad. At the very least, in St. Petersburg I will tell everyone that I ate a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am such an educated person without prejudices that I even came close to eating a crocodile.

Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen... I hate...

I ate a turtle in Marseilles when we went from Paris to Nice in 2030, and I ate a frog with white sauce in San Remo. I ate with you.

Stop it, they tell you!

“I swallowed a shell from a pink shell in Venice,” Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.

If you don’t shut up, I’ll go to the restroom and sit there! I can't hear such abomination.

Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:

And finally, if you ate such disgusting things, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never have been able to eat it.

Was I drunk in Venice? Nikolai Ivanovich exclaimed and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes... When I ate a frog in San Remo, I was drunk. And in Venice...

Don't be a wild man

A fast train had just left the vast glass-covered railway yard in Budapest and was speeding south towards the Serbian border.

In the first class carriage, in a separate compartment, already fairly littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a light brown trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out wide. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin jacket on his head, the lady is in a camel-colored wool dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in the felt hat with the erect wings of some little birds. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had a down pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Based on these pillows, anyone who has ever been abroad would now say that they are Russian, because no one but Russians travel abroad with down pillows. That the man and the lady were Russian could be guessed by the lambskin cap on the man’s head, and, finally, by the metal enamel teapot standing on a raised table near the carriage window. Light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the kettle. In Budapest, in the railway cafeteria, they had just made themselves some tea in a kettle.

And in fact, the man and the lady were Russian. These were our old acquaintances, the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov, who had already traveled abroad for the third time and this time were heading to Constantinople, vowing to visit both Serbian Belgrade and Bulgarian Sofia along the way.

At first, the Ivanovs were silent. Nikolai Ivanovich picked his teeth with a feather and looked out the window at the fields stretching out in front of him, already devoid of snow, carefully plowed and razed, smooth as billiards, with stripes of winter crops beginning to turn green. Glafira Semyonovna took a small silver box out of her bag, opened it, took a powder puff from it and powdered her flushed face, looking in the mirror built into the lid, and finally said:

- And why did you give me this Hungarian wine? His face is so hot.

“It’s impossible, mother, to be in Hungary and not drink Hungarian wine!” - answered Nikolai Ivanovich. “Otherwise someone at home will ask if they drank Hungarian when they passed through the gypsy kingdom?” And what will we answer?! I even deliberately ate this very paprika with klobs. Klobs, klobs... Here we have klobs - just a steak with onion sauce and sour cream, and here klobs - zraza, chopped zraza.

“First of all, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just klobs, but schnell-klobs,” objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly…

- As if it doesn’t matter!

- No, it doesn’t matter... Schnell in German means soon, in a hurry... And if the klobs are without schnell...

- Well, you really love to argue! - Nikolai Ivanovich waved his hand and immediately changed the conversation: - Still, in this Hungarian kingdom they feed well. Look how well they fed us at the Budapest station! And what a gorgeous restaurant. Well done gypsies.

- It’s like everyone here is gypsies? – Glafira Semyonovna doubted.

- Hungarians are gypsies. You heard them talking: cook... gakhach... cr... gr... tr... throat. Exactly like our Chaldeans in various country dens. And their eyes are the size of saucers, and their faces are black.

- You're lying, you're lying! We saw a lot of blond people at the stations.

– Well, in our gypsy choirs there are not black gypsies. What if some one is born not like his mother, not like his father, but like a passing guy, so what can you do with her! And finally, we have just entered the gypsy kingdom. Wait, the further you go, the darker everyone will be,” Nikolai Ivanovich said authoritatively, moved his lips and added: “However, my mouth is burning with this paprika.”

Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.

- And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she exclaimed.

- What rubbish this is! A plant, a vegetable... You can’t sit everywhere like you, just on broth and steak. I went to travel, educate myself so as not to be wild man and know everything. We deliberately go to unfamiliar countries to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary - and whatever is Hungarian, serve it.

“However, fishzupe demanded it at the buffet, but he didn’t eat.”

– But still I tried. I tried it and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe – fish soup. I thought it was something like our fish soup or village soup, because the Hungarians big river The Danube is close by, so I thought there was a lot of fish of all kinds, but it comes out quite opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, or else from fish heads and tails. There were some gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery... sour... - Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, winced and, taking out a glass from the corner on the sofa, began pouring tea into it from the kettle.

“Br...” Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, frantically shrugged her shoulders and added: “Wait... they’ll feed you some other crocodile if you ask for different dishes.”

- Well, so what?.. I’ll be very glad. At the very least, in St. Petersburg I will tell everyone that I ate a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am like this educated person without prejudice, that he even went as far as eating a crocodile.

- Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! – Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen... It’s disgusting...

“I ate turtle in Marseilles when we went from Paris to Nice three years ago, and I ate frog with white sauce in San Remo.” I ate in front of you.

- Stop it, they tell you!

“I swallowed a shell from a pink shell in Venice,” Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll go to the restroom and sit there!” I can't hear such abominations.

Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:

- And finally, if you ate such disgusting things, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never have been able to do it.

– Was I drunk in Venice?! - Nikolai Ivanovich exclaimed and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes... When I ate a frog in San Remo, I was drunk. And in Venice...

Glafira Semyonovna jumped up from the sofa:

- Nikolai Ivanovich, I’m going to the restroom! If you mention this crap again, I'm leaving. You know very well that I can’t hear about her!

- Well, I’m silent, I’m silent. “Sit down,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, put the empty glass on the table and began to light a cigarette.

“Brrr...” Glafira Semyonovna shuddered her shoulders again, sat down, took an orange and began to peel it from the skin. “At least eat an orange, or something,” she added and continued: “And I’ll tell you more.” You reproach me that when I’m abroad in restaurants I don’t eat anything except broth and steak... And when we come to the Turks, I won’t even eat steak with broth.

- So how is it? From what? – Nikolai Ivanovich was surprised.

- Very simple. Because the Turks are Mohammedans, they eat horses and can fry me a steak from horse meat, and their broth can also be made from horse meat.

- Fu-fu! Hello there! So what will you eat in Turkish soil? After all, you won’t find ham among the Turks. It is strictly forbidden to them by their faith.

Audiobook: Visiting the Turks

Genre:
Release year: 2017
Is reading: Fedosov Stanislav
Language: Russian
Playing time: 16:14:02
Format: mp3/128 kbps
Size: 832.25 MB
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Publisher: Radio Star

Premiere on Radio Star! On the radio from November 7 to December 8, 2016, Nikolai Leikin’s work “Visiting the Turks” performed by Stanislav Fedosov was performed.

Nikolai Aleksandrovich Leikin is a Russian journalist and writer. Born on December 7, 1841 in St. Petersburg, in merchant family. He graduated from a German reform school, served as a clerk, worked in an insurance company and was engaged in commerce. However, most of all young man attracted literary activity. He wrote many essays, stories and plays. In addition, the writer was involved in politics and was a member of the St. Petersburg City Duma. He died on January 6, 1906 at the age of 64.

Glafira Semyonovna and Nikolai Ivanovich Ivanov, already in the status of experienced travelers, went to Constantinople. On the way it was no longer so difficult for them. After the gypsy kingdom - Hungary - the route ran through Slavic lands, and common fraternal roots made it easier to understand. However, our compatriots managed to distinguish themselves - they almost ended up in crime news. Glafira Semyonovna threw a piece of ham at a Serbian customs officer, and Nikolai Ivanovich acted as an impostor, giving an interview about the absence of samovars in Sofia and their impact on Russian-Bulgarian relations.

Download Audiobook Nikolay Leikin - Visiting the Turks

Audio book text:

Don't be a wild man
A fast train had just left the vast glass-covered railway yard in Budapest and was speeding south towards the Serbian border.
In the first class carriage, in a separate compartment, already fairly littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a light brown trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out wide. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin jacket on his head, the lady is in a camel-colored wool dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in a felt hat with the erect wings of some birds. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had a down pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Based on these pillows, anyone who has ever been abroad would now say that they are Russian, because no one but Russians travel abroad with down pillows. That the man and the lady were Russian could be guessed by the lambskin cap on the man’s head, and, finally, by the metal enamel teapot standing on a raised table near the carriage window. Light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the kettle. In Budapest, in the railway cafeteria, they had just made themselves some tea in a kettle.

Current page: 1 (book has 28 pages in total)

Nikolay Leikin
Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople

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Don't be a wild man

A fast train had just left the vast glass-covered railway yard in Budapest and was speeding south towards the Serbian border.

In the first class carriage, in a separate compartment, already fairly littered with matches, cigarette butts and orange peels, sat a not yet old, rather plump man with a light brown trimmed beard and a young woman, not bad-looking, with a still beautiful bust, but also already beginning to loosen and spread out wide. The man is dressed in a gray suit jacket with a travel bag over his shoulder and a black lambskin jacket on his head, the lady is in a camel-colored wool dress with unusual puffs on the sleeves and in a felt hat with the erect wings of some birds. They sat alone in the compartment, sat opposite each other on the sofas, and both had a down pillow in white pillowcases on the sofas. Based on these pillows, anyone who has ever been abroad would now say that they are Russian, because no one but Russians travel abroad with down pillows. That the man and the lady were Russian could be guessed by the lambskin cap on the man’s head, and, finally, by the metal enamel teapot standing on a raised table near the carriage window. Light streams of steam came out from under the lid and from the spout of the kettle. In Budapest, in the railway cafeteria, they had just made themselves some tea in a kettle.

- And why did you give me this Hungarian wine? His face is so hot.

“First of all, we call steaks with onions and potato sauce not just klobs, but schnell-klobs,” objected Glafira Semyonovna. - And secondly…

- As if it doesn’t matter!

- No, it doesn’t matter... Schnell in German means soon, in a hurry... And if the klobs are without schnell...

- It’s like everyone here is gypsies? – Glafira Semyonovna doubted.

- You're lying, you're lying! We saw a lot of blond people at the stations.

Glafira Semyonovna shook her head.

- And you want to eat all sorts of rubbish! - she exclaimed.

- What rubbish this is! A plant, a vegetable... You can’t sit everywhere like you, just on broth and steak. I went to travel, educate myself, so as not to be a wild person and know everything. We deliberately go to unfamiliar countries to get acquainted with all their articles. Now we are in Hungary - and whatever is Hungarian, serve it.

“However, fishzupe demanded it at the buffet, but he didn’t eat.”

– But still I tried. I tried it and I know that their fishzupe is rubbish. Fishzupe – fish soup. I thought it was something like our fish soup or village fish, because the Hungarians have the big Danube River close by, so I thought there was a lot of fish of all kinds, but it comes out quite opposite. In my opinion, this soup is made from herring heads, or else from fish heads and tails. There were some gills floating in my plate. Salty, peppery... sour... - Nikolai Ivanovich recalled, winced and, taking out a glass from the corner on the sofa, began pouring tea into it from the kettle.

“Br...” Glafira Semyonovna made a sound with her lips, frantically shrugged her shoulders and added: “Wait... they’ll feed you some other crocodile if you ask for different dishes.”

- Well, so what?.. I’ll be very glad. At the very least, in St. Petersburg I will tell everyone that I ate a crocodile. And everyone will know that I am such an educated person without prejudices that I even went as far as eating a crocodile.

- Fi! Shut up! Shut up please! – Glafira Semyonovna waved her hands. - I can’t even listen... It’s disgusting...

“I ate turtle in Marseilles when we went from Paris to Nice three years ago, and I ate frog with white sauce in San Remo.” I ate in front of you.

- Stop it, they tell you!

“I swallowed a shell from a pink shell in Venice,” Nikolai Ivanovich boasted.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll go to the restroom and sit there!” I can't hear such abominations.

Nikolai Ivanovich fell silent and sipped tea from a glass. Glafira Semyonovna continued:

- And finally, if you ate such disgusting things, it was because you were drunk every time, and if you were sober, you would never have been able to do it.

– Was I drunk in Venice?! - Nikolai Ivanovich exclaimed and choked on his tea. - In San Remo - yes... When I ate a frog in San Remo, I was drunk. And in Venice...

Glafira Semyonovna jumped up from the sofa:

- Nikolai Ivanovich, I’m going to the restroom! If you mention this crap again, I'm leaving. You know very well that I can’t hear about her!

- Well, I’m silent, I’m silent. “Sit down,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, put the empty glass on the table and began to light a cigarette.

- So how is it? From what? – Nikolai Ivanovich was surprised.

- Very simple. Because the Turks are Mohammedans, they eat horses and can fry me a steak from horse meat, and their broth can also be made from horse meat.

- Fu-fu! Hello there! So what will you eat in Turkish soil? After all, you won’t find ham among the Turks. It is strictly forbidden to them by their faith.

- I'll become a vegetarian. I will eat pasta, vegetables - peas, beans, potatoes. I will eat bread and tea.

- What are you talking about, mother! - Nikolai Ivanovich said. – After all, we will stay in some European hotel in Constantinople. Pyotr Petrovich was in Constantinople and said that there are excellent hotels there that the French run.

“The hotels may be run by the French, but the cooks are Turks... No, no, I’ve already decided that.”

“Can’t you tell the difference between horse meat and bull meat?”

- However, you still need to take it into your mouth and chew it... Ugh! No, no, I’ve already decided that, and you won’t talk me out of it,” Glafira Semyonovna said firmly.

- Well, a traveler! Yes, if you please, I’ll taste the meat for you,” Nikolai Ivanovich suggested.

- You? Yes, you will deliberately try to feed me horse meat. Do I know you. You're a mischief maker.

- What an incredible woman! How did I prove that I am a mischief-maker?

- Be quiet, please. I know you inside and out.

Nikolai Ivanovich spread his hands and bowed touchingly to his wife.

– Studied through and through. “I remember how you rejoiced in Naples when, at the table d’hôte, I ate moules by mistake—those damned snails, mistaking them for morels,” his wife nodded to him. – You must remember what happened to me then. However, I’ll take off my corset and lie down,” she added. “The conductor was given a guilder in Vienna so that he wouldn’t let anyone into our compartment, so there’s no point in me being at attention.”

“Yes, of course, take off that collar and all the girths,” Nikolai Ivanovich assented. “There’s no one to flirt with here.”

“But I still think that someone wouldn’t have broken in.”

- No no. If he took the guilder, he won’t let anyone in. And finally, until now he has kept his word and has not let anyone in to us.

Glafira Semyonovna unbuttoned her bodice and took off her corset, putting it under the pillow. But she had just laid down on the sofa when the door from the corridor opened and a conductor with tongs appeared in the compartment.

“Ich habe die Ehre...” he said in greeting. – Ihre Fahrkarten, mein Herr...

Nikolai Ivanovich looked at him and said:

- Glasha! But the conductor is new! Not the same conductor.

“Novi, novi...” the conductor smiled, cutting the tickets.

- Speak Russian? – Nikolai Ivanovich asked him joyfully.

- Not enough, sir.

- Slavic brother?

“Slavs, sir,” the conductor bowed and said in German: “Perhaps the Russian gentlemen want them to be alone in the compartment?”

To explain his words, he showed the spouses his two fingers.

“Yes, yes...” Nikolai Ivanovich nodded to him. - Their hebe... Glasha! We'll have to give this one too, otherwise he'll let passengers into our compartment. That conductor, the scoundrel, stayed in Budapest.

“Of course, let me… We can spend the night in the carriage,” I heard from Glafira Semyonovna. - But don’t give it now, and then, otherwise this one will jump off at some station and you’ll have to give it to a third one.

“I’ll give you a guilder!.. Their hebe has a guilder, but then...” said Nikolai Ivanovich.

“Fuck... Fuck...” added Glafira Semyonovna.

The conductor, obviously, did not believe it, muttered something in German, in Slavic, smiled and held his hand in a fistful.

- Does not believe. Ah, brother Slav! Who do you think we are! And we still freed you! Fine, fine. Here's half a guilder for you. And the rest later, in Belgrade... We are going to Belgrade now,” Nikolai Ivanovich told him, took out some change from his wallet and handed it to him.

The conductor tossed change into his palms and spread his arms.

“It’s not enough, sir... We pray for one guilder,” he said.

- Yes, give him a guilder! Let it fail. We must have peace for ourselves at night! – Glafira Semyonovna shouted at her husband.

Nikolai Ivanovich grabbed the change from the conductor’s palm, handed him a guilder and said:

- Choke on it, little brother...

The conductor bowed and, locking the door to the compartment, said:

- With God, sir.

Fyliopsdzalals

The train knocks and rattles as it rushes across the Hungarian steppes. Occasionally we glimpse villages reminiscent of our Little Russian ones, with mud huts painted in White color, but without thatched roofs, but certainly with a tiled roof. Even less often do you come across estates - certainly with a small residential building and huge numerous outbuildings. Glafira Semyonovna lies on the sofa and tries to fall asleep. Nikolai Ivanovich, armed with the book “Translator from Russian into Turkish,” studies Turkish language. He mutters:

– Hello – selam alaikum, thank you – shukur, it’s expensive – plow holes, what’s worth – don’t deer, bring it – getir, goodbye – Allah is the Lord... You can break your tongue. Where can I remember such words! - he says, raises his eyes to the ceiling and repeats: - Allah is the Lord. You will remember Allah, but never remember this one. Ysmarladykh, ysmarladykh... Well, then... - he looks into the book. - “Put on the samovar.” Glafira Semyonovna! - he exclaims. “In Turkey they know about the samovar, which means we won’t have to struggle with tea anymore.”

Glafira Semyonovna rose to her elbows and hastily asked:

- How about a samovar in Turkish?

- Put the samovar - “suyu kainat”, therefore, the samovar - “kainat”.

– You really need to remember this well. Kainat, kainat, kainat... - Glafira Semyonovna said three times and again lay down on the pillow.

“But there are also easy words,” Nikolai Ivanovich continued, looking at the book. – For example, tobacco – “tyutyun”. They call it Tyutyun here too. Luggage is “uruba”, money is “para”, village is “key”, hotel is “khan”, horse is “at”, cab driver is “arabaji”... These are the most necessary words, and they must be learned as soon as possible. “Let’s sing,” he suggested to his wife...

- How to sing? – she was surprised.

– Yes, so... They say that when you sing, you are more likely to remember the words.

- You're out of your mind! Sing on the train!

- But we’re going slowly... The wheels are knocking, the compartment is locked - no one will hear.

- No, I won’t sing and I won’t let you. I want to sleep…

- Well as you know. And here Railway the word is difficult in Turkish: “demirinol”.

“I just don’t understand why you started learning Turkish words so early in the morning!” After all, we are going to Serbia first, we will stop in Belgrade,” said Glafira Semyonovna.

– Where is my book with Serbian words? I don't have such a book. Yes, finally, the Slavic brothers will understand us. You saw a conductor from the Slavs just now - in at its best Understood. After all, all their words are ours, but only in some special manner. Here you go…” he pointed to the heating regulator in the car. “You see the inscriptions: “warm... cold...” And up there, near the gas jet, to turn down the light and add: “light... darkness...” Isn’t that clear? Brother Slavs will understand.

The train slowed down and stopped at the station.

- Look what station this is. What is the name of? – asked Glafira Semyonovna.

“Szabatse... Is it in Hungarian or something... You really can’t understand anything,” he answered.

- But after all, it’s written in Latin letters.

- Latin, but it’s impossible to pronounce... Szazba...

Glafira Semyonovna stood up and began to read herself. The inscription read: "Szabadszállás".

- I'm crazy, or something! - she read and added: - Well, language!

– I’m telling you that it’s worse than Turkish. Gypsies... And probably, like our gypsies, they engage in horse theft, fortune telling and horse trading, and also about where things are bad. Look at the sheepskin capes they are wearing! And what faces, what faces! They’re completely bandits,” Nikolai Ivanovich pointed at the Hungarian peasants in their picturesque costumes. - There are the women here... The hem of the dress is almost to the knees and men's boots with high tops made of ungreased yellow leather...

Glafira Semyonovna looked out the window and said:

- Indeed, scary... You know, on the one hand, it’s good that we’re sitting alone in the compartment, but on the other...

-Are you really afraid? Well... Don't be afraid... I have a dagger in my travel bag.

- What a dagger you have! Toy.

- So how is it a toy? Steel. Don’t look at how small he is, but if they are left and right...

- Go away! You'll be the first to chicken out. Yes, I’m not saying anything about the day... Now it’s day, but we’ll have to spend the night in the carriage...

- And don’t worry at night. You sleep peacefully, and I will stay awake, sit and watch.

- Is that you? Yes, you will fall asleep first. You'll fall asleep while sitting.

- I won’t sleep, I’m telling you. In the evening I’ll make myself some strong tea at the station... I’ll get drunk and the tea will drive away sleep at its best. Finally, we are not alone in the carriage. There are some Germans sitting in the next compartment. There are three of them... Really, if something happens?..

- Are they Germans? Maybe the same big-eyed Hungarians?

- Germans, Germans. You heard that they were speaking German just now.

“No, it’s better to sleep during the day and sit and not sleep at night,” said Glafira Semyonovna and began to lie down on the sofa.

And the train had long since left the station with a name that was difficult to pronounce and was rushing through the Hungarian fields. Fields to the right, fields to the left, occasionally a village with a church with a single green dome, occasionally Orchard with apple tree trunks coated with lime and clay and turning white in the sun.

Stop again. Nikolai Ivanovich looked out the window at the station facade and, seeing the inscription on the facade, said:

- Well, Glasha, the name of the station is more difficult than the previous one. “Fyuliops...” he began to read and faltered. – Phyliopsdzalals.

“You see where you brought me,” said my wife. – No wonder I didn’t want to go to Turkey.

- You can’t, honey, you can’t... You need to travel all over Europe, and then you will be a civilized person. But then, when we return home, we have something to brag about. And these station names are all to our advantage. We will tell you that we drove through such areas that you can’t even pronounce the name. The name of the station is written, but it is impossible to pronounce it in a real manner. You just need to write it down.

And Nikolai Ivanovich, taking out his notebook, copied into it the inscription on the wall of the station: “Fülöpszállás”.

On the platform by the window of the carriage stood a big-eyed boy, black as a beetle, holding out paper plates with sausages thickly sprinkled with chopped white paprika to the glass.

- Glafira Semyonovna! Should we eat some hot sausages? - Nikolai Ivanovich suggested to his wife. - They sell hot sausages.

- No no. “You eat, but I won’t…” answered the wife. “Now, right up to Belgrade, I won’t go to any station to drink or eat.” I can’t eat anything from gypsy hands. How do you know what's chopped up in these sausages?

- Why should that be?

- No no.

- But what will you eat?

– And we have cheese from Vienna, ham, rolls, oranges.

- And I’ll eat sausages...

- Eat, eat. You are a known mischief maker.

Nikolai Ivanovich knocked on the boy’s window, lowered the glass and took his sausages and a bun, but had just given him two crowns and held out his hand for the change when the train started moving. The boy stopped counting out the change, smiled, poked his hand in the chest and shouted:

- Trinkgeld, trinkgeld, musyu...

All Nikolai Ivanovich had to do was show him his fist.

- What a gypsy! I didn’t give change! - he said, turning to his wife, and began to eat sausages.

No, you won't!

The train rushes on as before, stopping at stations with names that are difficult for a Hungarian to pronounce: Xenged, Kis-Keres, Kis-Zhalas. The train stopped at the Stsabatka station for about fifteen minutes. Before arriving at the station, the Slavic conductor entered the compartment and asked if the travelers would like to go to the buffet available at the station.

“Good fish, sir, good sheep meat...” he praised.

- No thanks. “You can’t lure anything,” answered Glafira Semyonovna.

Here Nikolai Ivanovich went with a kettle to make tea for himself, drank beer, brought some small smoked fish and a box of chocolate into the carriage, which he offered to his wife.

- Are you out of your mind?! – Glafira Semyonovna shouted at him. – I’ll start eating Hungarian chocolate! It probably has paprika.

- Viennese, Viennese, darling... You see, there’s a label on the box: Wien.

Glafira Semyonovna looked at the box, sniffed it, opened it, took a chocolate bar, sniffed it again and began to eat.

- How will you eat anything in Turkey? – the husband shook his head.

“I won’t eat anything suspicious.”

- But everything can be suspicious.

- Well, that's my business.

From the Stsabatka station we began to come across Slavic station names: Topolia, Verbac.

At the Verbats station Nikolai Ivanovich said to his wife:

- Glasha! Now you can drive without fear. We arrived in the Slavic land. Slavic brothers, not Hungarian gypsies... Just now there was Topolia station, and now Verbac... Topolia comes from poplar, Verbac comes from willow. Therefore, both food and drink are Slavic.

- No, no, you won’t fool me. There are the black faces standing there.

- The faces have nothing to do with it. After all, even among us, Russians, we can get such faces that the child will get a birthmark. Let me, let me... Yes, even the priest is standing in the same cassock as ours,” Nikolai Ivanovich pointed out.

-Where is the priest? – Glafira Semyonovna quickly asked, looking out the window.

- Yes, here... In a black cassock with wide sleeves and in a black kamilavka...

- And really pop. Only he looks more like a French lawyer.

- A French lawyer should have a white tongue under his beard, on his chest, and the kamilavka is not like that.

– Yes, and here it’s not the same as that of our priests. At the top, the edges of the bottom are rounded and, finally, black, not purple. No, it must be a Hungarian lawyer.

- Priest, priest... Haven’t you seen them in pictures in such kamilavkas? Yes, he has a pectoral cross on his chest. Look, look, he’s escorting someone and kissing, like our priests kiss – from cheek to cheek.

- Well, if you have a pectoral cross on your chest, then it’s your truth: priest.

- Pop, Slavic names of stations, so what else do you need? Therefore, we left the Hungarian land. Yes, there’s a blond girl picking her nostril. Totally Slavic. Slavic type.

“Didn’t you say just now that a blond girl can be born not like her mother, not like her father, but into a passing guy?” – Glafira Semyonovna reminded her husband.

The train was leaving the station at that time. Glafira Semyonovna took a basket of provisions from the rope shelf, opened it and began to make herself a ham sandwich.

“Eat your own food, bought in a real place, it’s much better,” she said and began to eat.

Indeed, the train was already rushing through the fields of so-called Old Serbia. Half an hour later, the conductor looked into the compartment and announced that the Neusatz station would now be reached.

“Novi Sad...” he added immediately and Slavic name.

- Glasha! Do you hear, this is a completely Slavic name! - Nikolai Ivanovich turned to his wife. - Slavic land? - he asked the conductor.

“Slovenian, Slovenian,” he nodded, leaned over to Nikolai Ivanovich and began to explain to him in German that all this once belonged to Serbia, and now belongs to Hungary.

Nikolai Ivanovich listened and did not understand anything.

- The devil knows what he's muttering! – Nikolai Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders and exclaimed: “Brother Slav!” Why are you muttering in German! Speak Russian! Ugh! Speak in your own way, in Slavic! This way we can talk more freely.

The conductor understood and spoke in Serbian. Nikolai Ivanovich listened to his speech and still did not understand anything.

“I don’t understand, brother Slav...” he threw up his hands. – The words seem to be ours, Russian, but I don’t understand anything. Well, go away! Leave! – he waved his hand. - Thank you. Mercy...

- With God, sir! – the conductor bowed and closed the compartment door.

Here is the station New Garden. The name of the station is written on the station building in three languages: in Hungarian - Uj-Videk, in German - Nejsatz and in Serbian - Novi Sad. Glafira Semyonovna immediately noticed the Hungarian inscription and said to her husband:

-Why are you fooling me? After all, we are still traveling on Hungarian soil. Look, the name of the station is something like: Uy-Videk... After all, it’s in Hungarian.

- Excuse me... What about the conductor? After all, he also told you that this is Slavic land,” Nikolai Ivanovich objected.

- Your conductor is lying.

- What reason does it have to lie to him? And finally, you yourself see the inscription: Novi Sad.

– Look at the faces that are standing at the station. One is blacker than the other. Fathers! Yes, there is one Hungarian even in a white skirt.

- Where in the skirt? It’s not in a skirt... However, maybe one of them got in the way. And as for the blacks, well, the Serbs are blacks too.

A boy walked along the corridor of the carriage with two coffee pots and cups on a tray and offered coffee to those who wanted it.

- Would you like some coffee? - Nikolai Ivanovich suggested to his wife.

“Oh my God,” she shook her head. “I told you that while we are on Hungarian soil, I will not take a crumb into my mouth at any station.”

- But you drank coffee in Budapest. The same Hungarian city.

- In Budapest! In Budapest there is a magnificent Viennese restaurant, footmen in tails, with capul 1
Kapul – men's hairstyle with curls hanging over the forehead, named after the French opera singer J. Capulya.

And were there such a black man in skirts in Budapest or in sheepskin naginal salons? ..

The train rushed off. On the right there were hills here and there. The area became mountainous. Here is the station again.

- Peterverdein! - the conductor shouts.

- Petrovedin! If you please see, it’s a completely Slavic city again,” Nikolai Ivanovich points to his wife at the inscription on the station building.

Glafira Semyonovna lies with eyes closed and says:

- Don't wake me up. Give me a good night's sleep so that I can stay awake all night and be on guard. Look at the suspicious faces everywhere. How long before sin? We have a lot of money with us. I have diamonds with me.

– We drove around Italy, and we came across not so suspicious faces along the way, we even came across real bandits, one might say, but nothing happened. God has been merciful.

And the train was again running far from the station. The hills grew into large mountains. Suddenly the train flew into the tunnel and everything went dark.

- Ay! – Glafira Semyonovna squealed. - Nikolai Ivanovich! Where are you? Quickly light the matches, light them...

- It’s a tunnel, a tunnel... calm down! - Nikolai Ivanovich shouted, looked for matches, but there were no matches. - Glasha! Do you have matches? Where are you? Give me your hand!

He looked for his wife with his hands, but did not find her in the compartment.

Soon, however, a gap appeared, and the train left the tunnel. Glafira Semyonovna was not in the compartment. The door to the carriage corridor was open. He rushed into the corridor and saw his wife sitting in the middle compartment between two Germans in soft travel caps. On her chest she held her shagreen bag with money and diamonds.

“I ran away to them.” I'm afraid in the dark. Why didn't you light any matches? These gentlemen immediately lit matches. But I tripped on them and fell. “They already lifted me up,” she added, standing up. - We need to apologize. Sorry, monsieur. Her university is deranged...” she said in French.

Nikolai Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders.

Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople

Nikolay Leikin Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople

Don't be a wild man

Fyliopsdzalals

No, you won't!

Nikolay Leikin
Visiting the Turks. A humorous description of the journey of the spouses Nikolai Ivanovich and Glafira Semyonovna Ivanov through the Slavic lands to Constantinople