Little Apples

by Anton Chekhov

  Horses, donkeys, and oxen in the service of the railroads.

  IN THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGES

  All passengers who have purchased tickets for first- or second-class carriages, but cannot secure a place as said carriages are filled with passengers traveling for free. Note: The aforementioned ticketed passengers may travel in third-class carriages standing. The board of the Libau-Romensk Railway Line will also permit them to lie beneath the benches or hang from coat hooks.

  THE PROPOSAL

  (A Tale for Young Ladies)

  Valentin Petrovich Perederkin, a young man of pleasant demeanor, put on his coat and tails, slipped into lacquered pointed boots, donned a top hat, and, struggling to contain his agitation, drove to Princess Vera Zapiskina’s estate.

  What a pity, gentle reader, that you are not acquainted with the princess! What a sweet and charming creature she is: soft eyes the color of the sky, locks silken and wavy! The waves of the sea may break upon the rocky shore, but on the waves of the princess’s locks every stone crumbles to dust. Only an undiscerning dunce can remain unmoved by her smiles and the warmth emanating from her miniature bust that seems chiseled from the finest stone. Only a hard-boiled brute will not be transported to the heights of bliss when she speaks, laughs, or shows her dazzlingly white teeth.

  Perederkin was shown into the drawing room.

  He took a seat opposite the princess.

  “There is something, dearest princess,” he began falteringly, “that I would like to ask you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Princess . . . forgive me, I do not know how to begin . . . you will surely find this so sudden . . . so impromptu . . . you will be angry.”

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. The princess smiled and looked at him questioningly.

  “From the moment I set eyes on you,” he continued, “my heart . . . my heart was filled with a longing that leaves me no peace day or night! And if this longing is not assuaged, I . . . I will be very unhappy!”

  The princess lowered her eyes pensively. Perederkin fell silent for a moment, but then continued. “You will surely be taken aback by what I have to say . . . you have such a lofty nature, far above mine, but in my eyes you are the ideal person for me.”

  Silence hung in the air. Perederkin sighed.

  “And of course my estate does border on yours . . . and I am a man of considerable means.”

  “What is this about?” the princess asked demurely.

  “What is this about?” Perederkin said heatedly, and rose. “Princess, I beg you, do not reject me! Do not destroy all my dreams! Dearest princess, I would like to make a proposal.”

  Perederkin sat down quickly, and leaned toward the princess. “A most profitable one, as you will see,” he whispered. “In a single year we could sell a million poods of lard. I am proposing that we set up a lard processing factory on our estates, fifty-fifty.”

  The princess thought awhile. “Fifty-fifty?” she said. “It’s a deal!”

  And the innocent reader, who expected a melodramatic ending, can breathe a sigh of relief.

  MAN

  (A Few Philosophical Musings)

  Atall, slender, dark-haired man—still young, though now approaching more mature years—stood at the door in his black frock coat and snow-white cravat, gazing sadly into the room filled with dazzling lights and waltzing couples.

  “How dreary and hard is the life of man!” he mused. “Man is a slave not only to his passions but also to his fellow men. Yes, a slave! I am a slave to this bright and merry crowd, which pays me so it need not notice me. Its will, its slightest whim, shackles my hands and feet, its gaze crushes me like a python crushes a rabbit. I am not averse to toiling, I am happy to serve, but this subservience makes me ill! Why am I here? Whom am I serving? This eternal whirl, with its ladies and ice cream, its flowers and champagne, that knocks me off my feet! Unbearable! How terrible is the lot of man! How happy I will be when I cease to be one!”

  It is uncertain to what depths the young pessimist’s thoughts might have plummeted had not a young woman of remarkable beauty approached him. Her face was aglow, and exuded resolve. She ran her glove over her alabaster forehead, and, in a voice that sounded like music, said, “A glass of water, my good man!”

  The good man put on a respectful face, and hurried off to fetch one.

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF A COUNTRY SQUIRE

  Upon his retirement, State Councilor Kaprikornov bought himself a small country estate on which he settled. There, in imitation partly of Cincinnatus, partly of the mushroom specialist Professor Kaigorodov, he toiled the land and recorded his observations on nature. After his death his notes, along with the rest of his property, was transferred by his last will and testament to his housekeeper, Marfa Evlampiyevna, a devoted old soul who had the manor house pulled down and a sturdy tavern that served liquor built in its place. This tavern had a special clean room for traveling landowners and officials, and on the table in that room she placed the deceased’s bundle of notes, in case someone needed a piece of scrap paper. One of these pieces of paper has fallen into my hands; from what I could surmise, it must have been from the beginning of the deceased’s agricultural notes, and contains the following entries:

  March 3. The birds of spring are now arriving. Yesterday I saw some sparrows. Greetings to you, O children of southern climes! In your sweet chirping I believe I hear you calling back to me: “And a good day to you, Your Excellency!”

  March 14. Today I asked Marfa Evlampiyevna: “Why does our cockerel crow so often?” Her answer: “Because he has a throat.” So I said: “I, too, have a throat, and yet I do not crow!” Oh the mysteries of nature!

  All the years I served in St. Petersburg I often ate turkeys, but saw my first live one yesterday. A most remarkable bird.

  March 22. The village constable came by. We had a long talk—I seated, he standing—about the virtues. As we conversed, he asked me: “If given the opportunity, Your Excellency, would you wish to be young again?” To which I replied: “No, I would not. If I were young again I would not have the high rank I have attained.” He agreed with me, and, visibly moved, went on his way.

  April 16. With my own hands I dug two vegetable beds in the garden and sowed semolina in them. I did not tell a soul about this, as I wanted the semolina beds to be a surprise for dear Marfa Evlampiyevna, to whom I owe so many happy moments. Yesterday, as we were having tea, she lamented the condition her figure was in, complaining that her size no longer allowed her to fit through the pantry door. I remarked to her: “On the contrary, my dearest, the fullness of your form frames you most wonderfully and fans my inclination.” She blushed, and I stood up and embraced her with both arms (as one can no longer reach around her with just one).

  May 28. An old man who saw me by the women’s bathing place asked me why I was sitting there. To which I replied: “I am keeping watch to make sure that no young men approach.” “Let us both keep watch,” the old man said, and, sitting down next to me, we began to discuss the virtues.

  NADIA N.’S VACATION HOMEWORK

  RUSSIAN LANGUAGE

  Give five examples of relative clauses.

  Not too long ago Rushia waged war on foreign parts, by the way killing many Turks

  The railroad is screechy, carries people, and is maid of rails and materials.

  Beef is maid of bulls and cows, while mutton is maid of sheep and baby lambs.

  Papa was passed over for a medal, so he got angry and retired due to domestic reasons.

  I adore my friend Dunya Walk-on-Waters-kaya for her diligence and attention in class and for being skillful at introducing me to the hussar Nikolai Spiridonich.

  Give five examples of word agreement.

  During Lent, priests and men of the cloth refuse to marry ne
wlyweds.

  Peasants live in country houses both summer and winter, beat their horses, but are terribly unclean, for they are bespattered with tar and refuse to hire maids and porters.

  Parents give their daughters to military men who have a fortune and their own house.

  Young boy! You must honor your papa and your mama, and thus you will be a pretty child and loved by everyone in the world.

  No chance had he for one last sigh, As the lunging bear did upon him fly.

  COMPOSITION

  How did you spend your vacation?

  The instant I passed my examinations I left with Mama, our furniture, and my brother Ioanni, a third-year lycée student, for our summer dacha. We were visited by: Katya Kuzevich with her mama and papa, Zina, little Egor, Natasha, and many other friends of mine, who took walks with me and embroidered out of doors. There were a lot of men, but us maidens kept away from them and paid no attention to them whatsoever. I read many books, among them Meshchersky, Maikov, Dumas, Livanov, Turgenev, and Lomonosov. Nature was at its zenith, the young trees growing in rampant profusion, no ax having yet sought out their robust trunks, and the delicate foliage cast a breezy, all-engulfing shade over the reedy soft grasses speckled with the gilded tips of buttercups, an azure spray of bluebells, and crimson cloves. (Teacher’s note: evidently lifted from Turgenev’s “Silent Moment”!) The sun rose and it set. Where it rose there was a herd of birds flying. There was this shepherd who was shepherding his sheep, and there were some clouds floating under the sky. Oh how I do love nature! My papa was jittery all summer long. The evil bank wanted to take possession of our house just like that, and Mama never left Papa’s side as she was afraid he would take his own life. I had a very good vacation because I studied science and comported myself very well. The end.

  ARITHMETIC

  Three merchants invested capital in a trading enterprise, which within a year brought them a profit of 8,000 rubles. Question: How much did each receive if the first merchant invested 35,000 rubles, the second 50,000, and the third 70,000?

  Answer: To solve the problem, one has to begin by figuring out which of the merchants invested the most money. This can be done by taking the three amounts and subtracting them from one another, from which we see that the third merchant invested most, as he did not invest 35,000, or 50,000, but 70,000. Fine. The next step is figuring out how much each of the merchants received, for which we must divide 8,000 into three parts so that the largest part will go to the third merchant. Division: three goes into eight two times. 3 x 2 = 6. Fine. Subtract six from eight which leaves you with 2. Add a zero. Subtract eighteen from twenty which again leaves you with two. Keep adding zeros till the end. The result is 2 rubles and 666 and 2/3 kopecks, which leads us to deduce that each merchant should have received 2 rubles and 666 and 2/3 kopecks, and the third merchant a little bit more.

  Authenticated by—Chekhonte

  WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

  Gruzdev, a young telegraph operator, was lounging on a sofa in a hotel room, his light-blond head propped on his hands. He was gazing at a tiny red-haired young woman.

  “Tell me, Katya, what led you to become a fallen woman?” he asked with an offhand sigh. “By the way, you look frozen through!”

  It was one of the worst possible March nights. The dull flicker of the streetlamps barely lit the grimy, thinning snow. Everything was wet, dirty, and gray. The wind moaned quietly, timidly, as if afraid it might be forbidden to sing. There was the sound of heavy feet tramping through the slush. Nature was in the grip of nausea.

  “What led you to become a fallen woman?” Gruzdev asked again.

  Katya looked shyly into his eyes. They were honest, warm, sincere eyes, she thought. Fallen creatures are drawn to honest eyes like moths to a flame. A kind look is worth more than a full bowl of gruel. Embarrassed, picking at the fringe of the tablecloth, she told Gruzdev her sad tale. A humdrum tawdry tale: a man, promises, deceit, and so on.

  “What a scoundrel!” Gruzdev muttered indignantly. “Brutes like that should be rounded up and sent to hell one and all! Was he rich?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it! But you women are just as much to blame, hankering after money like that! What do you need all that money for?”

  “He swore he would take care of me for the rest of my life,” Katya whispered. “Is that so bad? How could I resist? I have a poor old mother to care for!”

  “What unfortunate creatures you are! And you all end up like this out of sheer foolishness, out of idiocy! You women are all so fainthearted! Unfortunate, pitiful! Listen, Katya! It’s none of my business, and I’m the last person to want to meddle in other people’s affairs, but your face is so sad I have to speak my mind! Why don’t you return to a respectable life? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? After all, it’s plain to see that you are not completely ruined yet, that you can still turn back! Why don’t you at least try to be respectable again? You could, Katya, I’m sure of it! You have an honest face, and in your eyes there is goodness, sorrow. You have such a nice smile!”

  Gruzdev took Katya by both hands and, looking through her eyes into her soul, uttered many kind words. He spoke in a soft trembling tenor, his eyes filled with tears. His hot breath poured over her face and neck.

  “You can be respectable again, Katya! You are still young, you must try!”

  “I have tried, but . . . but nothing came of it! I tried everything! Once I even started working as a scullery maid, though . . . though I am of noble lineage! I wanted to give up my life of sin! Better the dirtiest drudgery than the trade I am in now! I worked as a scullery maid in a merchant’s house. I stayed there for a month and I made do, life was livable. But the mistress was a jealous woman, even though I never paid the slightest attention to the master. Finally she threw me out, and again I had nowhere to go, and . . . and I ended up where I started! Right where I started!”

  Katya’s eyes widened, her face grew pale, and suddenly she let out a shriek. In the room next door something fell crashing to the floor—Katya’s shriek must have startled someone. Her thin hysterical sobs echoed through the flimsy partition between the rooms. Gruzdev quickly got her some water. Ten minutes later Katya was lying on the sofa, still sobbing, “What a worthless woman I am! The worst in the whole world! I will never manage to return to a life of decency now! Never! I will never manage to lead a virtuous life! How can I? I am so vile! I am so ashamed! But I deserve no better!”

  Katya said little, not as much as Gruzdev, but there was candor in her words. She wanted to make a full confession, the confession of an honest sinner, but her words did not amount to more than moral self-flagellation. Again and again she clawed at her soul.

  “I have tried and tried, but nothing ever comes of it! Nothing! I might as well perish!” she finally concluded with a sigh, and carefully set about rearranging her hair.

  The young man looked at the clock.

  “I will never amount to anything, but still, I am so grateful to you! This is the first time in my life that anybody has spoken such kind words to me. You are the only person who has ever treated me humanely, even though I am a vile, fallen woman!”

  And suddenly she fell silent. A novel she had once read flashed through her mind. The hero had befriended a fallen woman and after much back and forth had convinced her to return to a life of virtue, and after she returned to a life of virtue he had made her his mistress. Katya thought awhile. Was not blond Gruzdev the hero of that novel? Was he not at least a little bit like him? Quite like him, she mused. With a pounding heart, she looked into his eyes. Tears ran in streams down her cheeks.

  “There, there, Katya, calm down!” Gruzdev sighed, looking at the clock. “If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll be able to turn your back on this life.”

  Katya, still crying, slowly unbuttoned the three top buttons of her coat. The novel with the eloquent hero faded from her mind.


  The distraught wind howled through the ventilation shaft as if it was the first time it had ever seen the violence human beings will submit to in quest of their daily bread. High up above, on another floor, someone was plucking at an untuned guitar. The most humdrum of music.

  THE FRENCH BALL

  “I want you to go to the French ball tonight. You’re the only one I can think of sending. I want a full article—if possible even a story. The more detail the better. If for whatever reason you can’t go, then let me know as soon as possible and I’ll send someone else. I’ll get you a ticket by seven.

  (The editor’s signature)

  P.S. At the ball, buy yourself a raffle ticket—the office will pay. Good luck in winning the prize the president of the French Republic has sent. Is it true you’re getting married?”

  After reading this letter, Peter Semyonich, journalist, roving reporter, and humorist, lay down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, and patted his belly with self-satisfaction. (He had just eaten lunch, and was nursing a feeling akin to selfless, platonic love in the vicinity of his stomach.)

  “At the ball, buy yourself a raffle ticket—the office will pay!” he mimicked the editor’s letter. “What generosity! For the next two years I won’t hear the end of it! The scoundrel! He’s as tightfisted as Scrooge! He should see how editorial offices abroad work. They know how to value a man, they never scrimp and save! Say you are Stanley and about to set out in search of Livingston: Here’s a few thousand pounds sterling for you! Say you’re Mr. John Bull and about to set out in search of Janet: Here’s ten thousand pounds for you! You are about to set out to write a piece on the French ball: Here’s a thousand fifty for you! That’s how it is abroad, and what do I get? A raffle ticket! He pays me five kopecks a line, and then he thinks that I . . . the scoundrel!”