Spaniards strum their guitars night and day, fight duels outside windows, and exchange letters with Constantine Shilovsky, a country squire from Zvenigorod, who composed “Baby Tiger” and “Oh to Be a Spaniard.” They are never accepted into the civil service, as they have long hair and wear plaids. They marry for love, but kill their wives soon after the wedding in a fit of jealousy, despite the protestations of the Spanish police officers, who are highly respected in Spain. They engage in the preparation of Spanish fly.
Circassians, to a man, sport the title “Your Excellency,” drink Georgian wine, and brawl in editorial offices. They are engaged in the production of antique Caucasian weaponry. Their minds are entirely unclouded by thought, and their noses are long so they can be led out by them of public places, where they cause disorder.
Persians battle Russian bedbugs, fleas, and cockroaches, for which they concoct Persian powder. They have been waging this war for a long time but it is far from won, and judging by the girth of merchants’ feather beds that are stuffed with banknotes, and the cracks in the bureaucrats’ beds through which banknotes slip away, victory is not in sight. Wealthy Persians sit on Persian carpets, poor Persians sit on stakes, a position the former find far more pleasurable. They wear the Imperial Order of the Lion and Sun, which is held by our very own Julius Schreyer, cannoneer and war correspondent extraordinaire, who garnered Persian sympathies. Another recipient of this order is the bankrupt director of the Skopin Bank, who received it for untiring services rendered to Persia, as many Moscow merchants also did for their unfaltering support of the Persians’ aforementioned war on insects.
The British put an exceedingly high value on time. “Time is money” is their motto, and therefore, instead of paying their tailors what they owe them, they pay them from time to time. The British are busy: they give public speeches, sail about in boats, and poison Chinese with opium. Leisure is a foreign concept to them. They have no time for dinner, no time to spend at balls, no time for tête-à-têtes, no time for steam baths. They send menservants to their rendezvous, who are given carte blanche. (Children born to these menservants are recognized as legitimate.) This busy nation lives in British clubs and on the Promenade des Anglais. The Englishman feeds on Epsom salts, and succumbs to the English disease.
A MODERN GUIDE TO LETTER WRITING
What is a letter? It is one of the means by which thoughts and feelings are exchanged; and yet, as letters are so often written by people lacking all thought and feeling, this definition does not quite hit the mark. The best definition, perhaps, was once provided by a lofty postal clerk: “A letter is a noun without which postal clerks would end up jobless and stamps unsold.”
There are open letters and sealed letters. The latter have to be opened with the utmost care, and, after having been read through, resealed carefully so that the addressee’s suspicions are not aroused. Reading other people’s mail is generally not to be recommended—although, of course, the benefit those close to the addressee might gain from doing so warrants the practice. Parents, wives, and superiors interested in a person’s morals, thoughts, and the purity of his convictions must read his letters.
Letters should be written with clarity and discernment. Courtesy, respect, and modesty of expression serve to ornament every letter, and when writing a letter to one’s superiors in the civil service, these considerations, as well as carefully following the scale of rank in addressing one’s superiors, is a prerequisite. You might, for instance, begin your letter in the following fashion: “Most magnanimous and beneficent Excellency, Ivan Ivanovich, May I draw your illustrious attention to . . .”
Men of letters, artists, and painters have neither rank nor title, so a simple “Dear Mr.” will do.
SAMPLE LETTERS
A letter to one’s superior
Most magnanimous and beneficent Excellency!
I am taking it upon myself to draw your exalted attention to the fact that yesterday, at the Chertobolotovs’ christening, our assistant bookkeeper Peresekin repeatedly delivered himself of, among other things, the opinion that the floors of our chambers need to be relacquered, and that it was high time our tables had new coverings. Though I cannot imagine that there was any malicious intent in his statements, one can only discern in them a certain discontent with the current state of affairs. It is to be lamented that among us there are still some whose frivolity leads them to be blind to the benefits of our association with Your Excellency. What ends are these people pursuing? I am puzzled and aggrieved! Exalted Excellency! You shower myriad benefactions upon us, but, Your Excellency, deliver us from those who are heading toward an evil end and dragging others with them.
Yours in abject sincerity and prayerful devotion,
Semyon Gnusnov
P.S. With all respectfulness, I draw Your Excellency’s attention to the fact that Your Excellency condescended to promise my nephew Kapiton the post of assistant bookkeeper. Though he might not yet have attained the highest standards of accomplishment, he is deferential and a teetotaler.
A letter to one’s inferior
The day before yesterday, when you brought my galoshes over to my wife, you stood waiting in a draft and, I am told, caught a chill, leading to your absence from the office. You are herewith severely reprimanded for this gross negligence of your health.
A love letter
Dearest Mariya Ermeyevna,
Being in dire need of funds, I herewith offer you my heart and hand. To avert any doubts you might have, I am enclosing an affidavit from the police testifying to my character.
With tender love,
M. Tprunov
A letter to a friend
My dearest friend Vasya,
Could you lend me five rubles until tomorrow?
Yours,
Hypochondriakov
(Such a letter is to be answered with: “No, I can’t.)
A business letter
Chère Princesse Milictrisse Kirbitevna,
May I, in abject respectfulness, draw Your Excellency’s attention to Your Excellency’s debt of one ruble and twelve kopecks that I had the honor of winning from Your Excellency in a game of cards the year before last at Beloyedov’s house, but have not yet had the honor of receiving.
In humble expectation, etc.
Zelenopupov
A risky letter
Excellency!
Yesterday I learned quite by chance that the New Year’s bonus I received was not owing to my personal merit, but to my wife’s. Needless to say, under these circumstances I can no longer continue my service in your office, and must request a transfer.
With assurances of my utmost contempt, etc.
Yours, So-and-so
A letter of invective
Dear Sir!
You critic, you!
A letter to a writer
Dear Sir,
Though I do not know you personally, charity and pity for you drive me to proffer you some good advice (since you seem to be a capable enough person): give up your pointless attempts!
A well-wisher
(It is best to refrain from signing such a letter, as one might find oneself compromised.)
MAN AND DOG CONVERSE
It was a frosty moonlit night. Alexei Ivanovich Romansov brushed what he took to be a little green devil off his sleeve, carefully opened the gate, and entered the courtyard.
“Man is nothing but a mirage,” he philosophized, “man is but ashes and dust. Pavel Nikolayevich might well be the governor, but he too is nothing but ashes and dust. His grandeur is just a hazy dream—one puff and he’s gone!”
“Grrrr!” the philosopher heard.
He turned in the direction of the growl and saw a large black wolf-like dog, of the kind bred by the shepherds of the steppes. The dog was by the gatekeeper’s hut, pulling at its chain. Romansov looked at the animal in as
tonishment, and thought awhile. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and smiled dejectedly.
“Grrrr!” the dog repeated.
“No! I don’t understand any of it!” Romansov proclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “And you . . . you have the gall to growl at a man? That’s unheard of! Damnation upon you! Aren’t you aware that man is the crown of creation? Look at me! I will now walk up to you. See? Am I a man, yes or no? What do you think? Am I a man or am I not a man? Out with it!”
“Grrrr! Woof!”
“Your paw!” Romansov said, reaching out his hand. “Your paw! You refuse? You prefer to withhold your paw? Very well. I will make a note of that. In the meantime, allow me to pat you . . . just an affectionate little pat—”
“Woof! Woof! Grrrr! Woof!”
“Ah, so you want to bite me, do you? All right! I’ll remember that! So you don’t give a hoot that man is the crown of creation, the king of animals! And I take it you would even be prepared to bite the governor himself! Am I right? The whole world prostrates itself before him, but you don’t care who he is, or how important he is! Do I understand you? Aha! I see! So you are a Socialist! Stay where you are! I demand an answer!”
“Grrrr! Woof! Woof!”
“Stay where you are! Don’t bite me! Now where was I? Oh yes—ashes and dust. One puff and he’s gone! Puff! And why are we even alive, you ask. Our mothers give birth to us in agony, we eat, drink, learn the lessons of life, die . . . and what for? Dust! Man is worthless. You are just a dog and don’t understand a thing, but if you . . . if you could peer into man’s soul! If you could fathom man’s psychology!”
Romansov turned away and spat.
“Nothing but dirt! You think that I, Romansov, collegiate assessor, am the king of nature! Well, let me inform you that you are wrong! I am a parasite, a crook, a hypocrite! The lowest of the low!”
Romansov banged his fist against his chest and began to weep.
“A damn sneak, a damned informer! Are you under the impression that Yegor Kornyushkin wasn’t fired because of me? And if you don’t mind my asking, who pilfered the committee’s two hundred rubles and then blamed Surguchov? Are you going to tell me it wasn’t me? I’m the lowest of the low! A Pharisee! A Judas! A toady! A usurer! A swine!”
Romansov wiped away his tears with his sleeve and began to sob loudly.
“Bite me! Tear me to pieces! From the day I was born no one has ever said an honest word to me . . . Everyone thinks I’m a low-down scoundrel, but to my face they only smile and praise me! If only someone would beat me or curse me out! Go on, bite me! Go on! Tear me to pieces, scoundrel that I am, a damned traitor!”
Romansov tottered and fell down on top of the dog.
“That’s it, bite me! Chew my face to bits! Go ahead! Even if it hurts, show no mercy! There, my arms too! Yes, I see blood flowing! Serves you right, you scoundrel! Yes! Merci beaucoup, Zhuchka . . . that’s your name, isn’t it? Merci! And tear my coat to pieces, too! Who cares, the coat was a bribe too. I sold out another man and used the money to buy this coat! And the cap with the cockade! But what am I babbling on about? It’s high time I got going. Goodbye, you sweet little doggie, you . . . you naughty little girl!”
“Grrrr!”
Romansov patted the dog, let it bite his calf one last time, wrapped his coat tightly about him, swayed, and tottered toward his door.
When he woke up the following day at noon, he was quite taken aback. His head, arms, and legs were in bandages. Hovering by his bedside were his crying wife and a doctor with a worried look on his face.
FEAST-DAY GRATUITIES
(From the Notebook of a Provincial Scrounger)
Ilist the donors one by one:
House No. 113. At apartment number 2, we came upon an individual of some education, who was quite well-intentioned to all appearances, if somewhat peculiar. Handing us our feast-day gratuity, he said: “Being a man of means, I am happy to offer this gratuity, but being at the same time a man of science who is accustomed to understanding objects and actions by studying their roots and causes, I would like to ask if there is a moral law by which you go from house to house collecting holiday gratuities, or if there is no such law and you are acting à vol d’oiseau?”14
As I espied in this question a thirst for knowledge, I sat down at his table that was decked with tasty morsels, and offered the following explanation: “Gratitude is a quality inherent in lofty and noble souls. It is a quality intrinsic in man, and it is our duty to further it in every way possible among the people of this town, and not to let it die. A townsman who gives feast-day gratuities is, accordingly, exercising the beneficence of gratitude. It is in fact our duty to train you without respite in this sense of gratitude—on weekdays as well as feast days. But since, in addition to collecting gratuities, we have so many other responsibilities, the townsfolk must settle for a few days in the year for this training, in the hope that in the future, as human relations develop, gratuities will be proffered on a daily basis.”
House No. 114. The owner, a Mr. Schweyn, gave me ten rubles with a sugary smile and a hearty handshake. One can only surmise that the old rogue has a messy backyard, or that he has someone living in the house illegally.
House No. 115. Madame Perechudova, the wife of the titular counselor, was put out when I entered her drawing room in my dirty galoshes. (Incidentally, she gave me three rubles.) Her lodger, Bryukhansky, when I requested that he fulfill his civic duty, refused so to do owing to a lack of funds. I explained to him: “On the evening of a feast day every townsman, before undertaking his usual expenditures on small luxuries, must weigh how much he will give and to whom, after consulting with the members of his family. He then divides the money depending on the number of recipients. If he has no money, he secures a loan; if for some reason he cannot secure a loan, he gathers his family and flees to Egypt . . . I wonder, sir, that you can even speak to me!” (I made note of his name.)
House No. 116. General Brindin, living in apartment number 3, proffering us five rubles said: “In my day I waged a battle against this evil, but for naught. The collecting of feast-day gratuities by toadies such as you is an insuperable evil! Here, take this and go to hell!”
A great general—but what a strange notion of civic duty.
* * *
14A comical misuse of the French term for “as the crow flies.” [Translator]
MAY DAY AT SOKOLNIKI
The first of May was tending toward evening. The din of carriages, voices, and music drowned out the singing of birds and the whispering fir trees of Sokolniki. The feast was in full swing. A couple was sitting at one of the tea tables of the Staraya Gulyania, the gentleman in a shining top hat and the lady in a blue bonnet. On the table in front of them was a boiling samovar, an empty vodka bottle, cups, glasses, sliced sausages, orange peels, and such. The man was exceedingly drunk. He was staring intently at an orange peel, a vacant smile on his face.
“You’re drunk as a skunk!” the lady mumbled angrily, looking about her nervously. “Drinking yourself under the table! It’s not enough that everyone has to look away, but you’re not having any fun yourself! Here you are with your cup of tea, and what does it taste like? You could be stuffing your mouth with marmalade or sausages—not that you’d know the difference! And to think I went to the trouble of ordering the best of everything!”
The vacant smile on the gentleman’s face turned into an expression of great sorrow.
“M-Masha, where are they taking all these people?”
“Nowhere! They’re just strolling about!”
“What about that policeman?”
“The policeman? He’s just keeping an eye on things—maybe he’s strolling about too! You’re so drunk you don’t know your right hand from your left!”
“I . . . I’m just . . . I’m an artist . . . a genre painter!”
�
��Drunk as a skunk! You should hold your tongue! Think before you start spouting rubbish! All around you there’s grass, trees, shrubs, little twittering birds, and you see nothing, as if you weren’t even here! You might as well be staring into the fog. A painter at least shows some interest in nature, and you? Drunk as a skunk!”
“Nature,” the man says, looking around. “Nate-nature . . . birds singing . . . crocodiles crawling . . . lions . . . tigers . . .”
“Good heavens! Everyone is so proper, walking arm in arm, enjoying the music—and here you are making a spectacle of yourself! How did you get drunk so fast? One can’t look away for a minute!”
“M-Masha,” the man in the top hat muttered, turning white. “Quick . . .”
“Now what?”
“I want to go home . . . quick . . .”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait. We’ll leave after dark. It’s simply too embarrassing to have you stumbling all over the place, making a fool of yourself. Just sit there quietly and wait.”
“I . . . I want to go home!”
He jumped up and, tottering, left the table. The people at nearby tables laughed out loud. The lady was mortified.
“May God strike me down if I’m seen in public with you again!” she murmured, propping him up. “The shame of it! You’re not even my husband—it’s not like I have a ring or anything!”
“M-Masha, where are we?”
“Oh be quiet! Everyone’s looking! This might be fine and dandy for you, but what about me? You’re not even my husband—you give me a ruble, and then all I hear is ‘I’m feeding you! I’m supporting you!’ I spit on your money! As if I needed it! I’m going back to Pavel Ivanich!”
Little Apples: And Other Early Stories Page 9
