Little Apples Page 4

  After we were introduced, Nasechkin said to me: “I am rejoicing in the company of these sweet children!” And, turning back to them, continued proudly: “Not to mention, you only find the best society in Skopin . . . government officials, men of the cloth . . . priests, monks . . . with every glass of vodka, you get a blessing then and there . . . and the host was covered in so many medals that even a general would have gasped! The moment we finished the sturgeon they brought out another! We ate that one too. And then they brought out some fish soup . . . pheasants!”

  “If I were in your shoes,” I told the captain, “I would be having heartburn at today’s news, but I must say I am amazed how well you are taking things. Did you lose a lot of money with Rikov?”

  “What do you mean, ‘lose’?”

  “Lose money—when the bank collapsed!”

  “Poppycock! Balderdash! Old wives’ tales!”

  “You mean you haven’t heard the news? Good Lord, Captain Nasechkin! But that is . . . that is absolutely . . . Here, read this!”

  I handed him the newspaper I had in my pocket. Nasechkin put on his spectacles and, smiling dismissively, began to read. The further he read, the paler and gaunter his face grew.

  “It has co-co-collapsed!” he gasped, all his limbs beginning to quake. “Oh the calamities raining down on my poor head!”

  Grisha’s face flushed a deep purple. He read the article and turned white. His hand trembling, he fumbled for his hat. His fiancée tottered.

  “My God!” I exclaimed. “Are you telling me that none of you knew? The whole of Moscow is agog!”

  An hour later I was alone with the captain, still trying to comfort him.

  “Don’t worry, Captain Nasechkin! It isn’t the end of the world! You may have lost all your money, but you still have your darling nephew and his fiancée!”

  “How right you are! Money brings trouble . . . but I still have those dear children . . . yes!”

  But alas! A week later I ran into Grisha.

  “Why don’t you go see your poor uncle?” I asked him. “You really should—he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you!”

  “He can go to hell for all I care!” Grisha said. “The old fool! Couldn’t he have found himself a better bank?”

  “Still, you ought to go see him! He’s your uncle after all!”

  “Him? You must be joking! What gave you that idea? He’s my stepmother’s third cousin thrice removed!

  “Well, at least send your fiancée to see him.”

  “Yes, and as for that—I don’t know why the devil you had to show her that newspaper before our wedding day! She’s shown me the door. She was waiting to pounce on my uncle’s goods and chattel too, the silly fool! You can imagine how disappointed she is!”

  I realized that, without meaning to, I had destroyed a most idyllic trio.

  A DOCTOR’S ROMANCE

  On achieving physical maturity and bringing one’s studies to completion, it is fitting to opt for feminam unam in addition to a dowry quantum satis.

  That is precisely what I did: I took feminam unam (taking two wives is prohibited) as well as a dowry. Even the ancients called those to account who married without insisting on a dowry. (Ichthyosaurus, XII.3)

  I prescribed for myself horses, a loge in the dress circle, began imbibing vinum gallicum rubrum, and bought myself a seven hundred–ruble fur coat. In short, I set out on a life of a lege artis nature.

  My wife’s habitus was passable. Height: average. Skin and mucous membranes: normal. Subcutaneous layer of fat: adequate. Chest: satisfactory (no crackling). Vesicular breathing: regular heart sounds.

  Psychological diagnosis: the only deviation from the norm is that my wife is chatty and somewhat loud. I am now suffering from acoustic hyperesthesia of the right auditory nerve. Whenever I examine a patient’s tongue I think of my wife, a thought that leads to an increased heart rate. How right the philosopher was who maintained: Lingua est hostis hominum amicusque diaboli et feminarum.

  Mater feminae, my mother-in-law (a mammal), suffers from the same ailments as my wife: when the two of them spend twenty-three hours out of twenty-four shouting at the top of their lungs, I show signs of mental derangement, combined with suicidal tendencies.

  As my esteemed medical colleagues will confirm, nine-tenths of all women suffer from a condition that Charcot has defined as hyperesthesia of the vocal organs. The remedy he suggests is amputation of the tongue, an operation with which he promises to rid mankind of one of its worst ailments. But alas! Billroth, who carried out this operation on numerous occasions, attests in his memoirs that after the operation women learned to speak by using their fingers, which had an even more deleterious effect on their husbands. (Memor. Acad., 1878) I propose a different course of treatment (cf. my dissertation). Amputation of the tongue should be performed, as Charcot proposes, but, relying on Professor Billroth’s findings, I suggest combining said amputation with a directive that the subject be made to wear mittens. (I have noted that individuals suffering from muteness who wear mittens are wordless even when hung.)

  AN EDITOR’S ROMANCE

  Asmall, straight nose, a beautiful bust, delightful hair, and exquisite eyes—not a single typographical error. I line-edited her and we married.

  “You must belong to me alone,” I told her on the day of our wedding. “I will not tolerate your being serialized. Remember that.”

  The day after the wedding I already noticed a slight change in my wife. Her hair was not as lustrous, her cheeks not as beguilingly pale, her eyelashes not so diabolically black, but reddish. Her movements were not as soft, her words not as gentle. Alas! A wife is a bride that has been half disallowed by the censor.

  In the first six months I surprised her with a cadet who was kissing her (cadets love complimentary pleasures). I gave her a first warning, and once more in the strictest possible terms forbade all general distribution.

  In the second six months she presented me with a bonus: a little son. I looked at him, looked in the mirror, looked at him again, and said to my wife: “This is a clear case of plagiarism, my dear. It’s as plain as the nose on this child’s face. I will not be hoodwinked!” I added, issuing another warning, along with a ban that prohibited her from appearing before me for a period of three months.

  But these measures did not work. By the second year of our marriage my wife had not one cadet, but a number of them. Seeing her unrepentant, and not wishing to share with colleagues, I issued a third warning and sent her, along with the little bonus, home to her parents so she could be under their watchful eye, where she is to this day.

  Her parents receive monthly royalties for her upkeep.

  THE TURNIP

  A Folktale

  Once upon a time a little old man and his wife lived happily, and a son was born to them whom they named Pierre. Pierre had long ears and instead of a head a fat turnip. He grew up to be a big, strapping fellow. The little old man tried pulling him up by the ears so something might come of him. He pulled and pulled, but to no avail. The little old man called his wife. The wife grabbed hold of the little old man and the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, but still to no avail. The wife called in a princess, who happened to be her aunt.

  The aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled. But to no avail. The aunt called over a general, who happened to be her godfather.

  The godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, but still to no avail. The little old man was at his wit’s end. He happened to have a daughter too, whom he gave to a rich merchant. He called in the merchant, who had many hundred-ruble bills to his name.

  The merchant grabbed hold of the go
dfather, the godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, and finally managed to give the turnip all the pull it needed.

  And the turnip became a great state councilor.

  EASTER GREETINGS

  An anteroom. A card table in the corner. On it are a government-issued sheet of gray paper, a pen, an inkpot, and some blotting paper. The usher is pacing up and down the hall, his mind on food and drink. On his well-fed countenance covetousness is written, and in his pockets the fruits of extortion jingle. At ten o’clock a little man—or an individual, as His Excellency likes to say—comes in from the street. The individual slips into the hall, tiptoes over to the table, picks up the pen timidly and with trembling hand, and begins writing his forgettable name on the gray sheet of paper. He writes slowly, with gravity and feeling, as if it were a calligraphic exercise. Lightly, very lightly, he dips the pen into the inkpot, four times, five—he is afraid the ink will spatter. A smudge and all will be lost! (There had been a smudge once, but that is a long story.) The individual does not end his signature with a flourish—he wouldn’t dare. He draws the r’s in painstaking detail. He finishes his calligraphic daub and peers at it, checking for errors, and not finding any, wipes the sweat from his brow.

  “A happy Easter to you!” he says to the usher, and the individual’s dyed mustache brushes three times against the porter’s prickly one as they exchange the ceremonial triple kiss. The sound of smacking lips is accompanied by the pleasant tinkle of the “small donation” dropped into the pocket of this modern-day Cerberus. This first individual is followed by a second, a third, a fourth, until one o’clock. The sheet of paper is covered with signatures from top to bottom. At four o’clock Cerberus disappears with the sheet into the inner chambers. He hands it to a little old man who begins reading it through.

  “These are all the Easter greetings? Hmm . . . Ha! Hmm . . . Well, I don’t recognize any of the handwriting! I tell you, one man is responsible for all these signatures! A calligrapher—they hired a calligrapher to write their Easter greetings! The audacity! I can see they didn’t want to trouble themselves to come wish me a happy Easter in person! What have I done to deserve this? Why this lack of respect? (Pause.) Well . . . I say, Maksim, will you go and get . . .”

  Eleven o’clock. A panting, sweating, flushed young man with a cockade on his military cap is clambering up the endless flights of stairs to the fifth floor. Having reached it, he frantically rings the bell. A young woman opens the door.

  “Is Ivan Kapitonich at home?” the young man asks, still out of breath. “Tell him . . . tell him to hurry back to His Excellency’s! He must put his name down again on the list of Easter greetings! Someone stole the piece of paper! We need to put together a new list! Hurry!”

  “Who in heaven’s name would steal something like that?”

  “That damned woman . . . that . . . that housekeeper of his! She gathers up all the paper she can find and sells it by the bale! The miserly old biddy, damn her! But I have eight more people to go tell—goodbye!”

  Another waiting room. A table and a sheet of paper. An usher, ancient and thin as a rake, is sitting on a stool in the corner. At eleven o’clock the door from the inner chambers opens. A bald head peeks in.

  “What? No one has come yet to wish me happy Easter, Efim?” a voice asks.

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  At noon the same head peers in again.

  “What? No one has come yet to wish me happy Easter, Efim?”

  “Not a soul, Your Excellency!”

  “Hmm . . . Ha! Hmm . . .”

  The head peers in at one, at two—still nobody. At three o’clock a whole torso, complete with hands and legs, protrudes into the room. The little old man walks over to the table and stares intently at the empty sheet of paper. There is an expression of deep sadness on his face.

  “Things aren’t what they used to be, Efim!” he says with a sigh. “Hmm . . . hmm . . . well, the fatal word ‘retired’ is stamped on my forehead. The poet Nekrasov wrote something about that, didn’t he? Efim, dear fellow, so my old woman doesn’t laugh me out of house and home, let’s fill up the sheet ourselves with an assortment of Easter greetings! Here’s the pen . . .”

  TWENTY-SIX

  (Excerpts from a Diary)

  June 2nd

  After dinner, I pondered the sad state of the Western European economy. I hired her as housekeeper.

  June 18th

  She was quarrelsome during dinner. From what I can tell, she must be going through some kind of emotional upheaval. I fear she is having an affair. I read in one of the lead articles in Golos that . . . Madness!

  December 4th

  My gates were opening and shutting all night. At five in the morning I saw Karyavov the clerk leaving the courtyard. When I asked him what he was doing, he was embarrassed. He was obviously up to no good, the rascal. I will have to fire him.

  December 28th

  She has been quarrelsome all day long. I’m sure someone has been loitering about outside. I caught a mouse in file folder 1302. I killed it.

  New Year’s Day

  Was wished a happy New Year. I presented her with an edifying book for her improvement. She was quarrelsome all day. Feeling despondent, I wrote a piece called “On the Pecheneg Raids in the District of Ufa.” I had a vision.

  January 4th

  She tore up both the piece I wrote and the book I gave her. She ordered me to rehire Karyavov. Yes, my sweet darling, right away! That night she was quarrelsome, tore up my papers, flew into hysterics, and informed me that she was leaving for Samara for a rest cure. I will not let her go!

  February 6th

  She has left! All day I lay on her bed weeping, and have come to the following conclusion: “She is in the best of health and consequently cannot have gone for a cure.” Something else is behind this—a love affair! I suspect that she might be drawn to one of my milksop clerks. But which one? I’ll find out tomorrow, since the culprit is bound to ask for a leave, and I . . . I will give him a good hiding! The gates didn’t keep opening and shutting last night, but I still slept badly. In spite of my dejection, I pondered the terrible state of France. I had two visions at the same time. Lord in heaven, forgive us sinners!

  February 7th

  I was handed twenty-six requests for leave. From all the clerks! Just you wait! They want to go to Kronstadt. Ha! So now Samara is in Kronstadt, is it? Just you wait!

  February 8th

  My grief has not diminished. I am deeply dejected. I have launched a reign of terror. All the clerks in the office are in a state of panic—the last thing on their minds is love. I dreamed of Kronstadt.

  February 14th

  Yesterday, Sunday, Karyavov went somewhere out of town, and today he is strutting about the office with a sarcastic smile on his lips. I am firing him.

  February 25th

  I received a letter from her. She is ordering me to send her money and to rehire Karyavov. “Yes, my sweet darling, right away!”

  Just you wait, you rogues! Yesterday, three more clerks went somewhere out of town. Whose gates are they opening and shutting?

  THE PHILADELPHIA CONFERENCE OF NATURAL SCIENTISTS

  The first conference paper to be read was “The Descent of Man,” dedicated to the memory of Darwin. Since the delegates in the large conference hall were linked to each other by telephone, the paper was read in a whisper. The distinguished reader stated that he was in full agreement with Darwin: the apes were at the bottom of it all. If there had been no apes there would have been no people, and had there been no people there would have been no criminals. The delegates agreed unanimously that all apes were to be advised of our displeasure, and that the public prosecutor was to be notified.

 
Some delegates did, however, voice certain doubts:

  The French delegate was in full agreement with the other delegates’ opinion, but at a loss to explain how one might account for the origins of, say, pigs in clover or crocodiles shedding tears. Having expounded on this point, the distinguished delegate presented diagrams of pigs in clover and teary-eyed crocodiles. The debate deadlocked, and it was proposed that the matter be postponed to the following session, and also that all telephones be disconnected before a final decision was reached.

  The German delegate (who was also the foreign correspondent of the Russian Slavophile newspaper Russ), declared that he was leaning more toward the theory that man developed from a crossbreeding of apes and parrots. In his opinion, men were in the process of destroying themselves by their aping of foreign ways. (A buzz of approval was heard over the telephone lines.)

  The Belgian delegate agreed with the other delegates to a certain extent, but in his opinion not all nations could have developed from apes. Russians, he argued, had evolved from thieving magpies, Jews from foxes, and Englishmen from frozen fish. He proved his theory about the Russians’ magpie heritage quite convincingly, and as the other delegates were still under the sway of the big embezzlement trials going on in Moscow they were quite ready to adopt the Belgian delegate’s thieving magpie theory. (The Times)

  MY NANA

  This was in the days before I became an unknown man of letters and before my bristling mustache had properly sprouted.

  It was a beautiful spring evening. I was returning from a dacha soirée where we had danced as if possessed. In my whole youthful being there was—to put it figuratively—not a single stone left standing, not a phrase intact, not a single realm uncrushed. A desperate love raged in my frantic soul. It was a piercing, scalding, spirit-smothering love—my first love. I had fallen in love with a tall, well-built young lady of about twenty-three with a pretty but slightly foolish face and exquisite dimples on her cheeks. I fell in love with those dimples too, and with the light blond hair tumbling in curls over her beautiful shoulders from beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat.