Little Apples

THE TEMPERAMENTS

(According to the Latest Science)

The Sanguine Man. Impressions work on him easily and quickly. This, according to Hufeland, leads to his being frivolous. In his young years he is a prankster and a ne’er-do-well. He talks back to his teachers, will not cut his hair, does not shave, wears glasses, and scribbles on walls. He is not good in class, but graduates. He is disrespectful to his parents. If he is wealthy, he is a dandy; if poor, he lives in squalor. He sleeps until noon, and goes to bed at all hours. His spelling leaves much to be desired. Nature has made him for love alone; consequently he will only occupy himself with what he loves. He is not above drinking himself to kingdom come. Drinking late into the night until little green devils dance before his eyes, he rises the following day somewhat bedraggled, but with only a slight dullness in his head, and without the urge to similia similibus curantur.8 He marries by mistake, and is forever engaged in battle with his mother-in-law and at war with his wife. He lies to beat the band. He is drawn to brawling and sentimental plays. In an orchestra he is the first violin. Being flighty, he is a liberal. The sanguine man will either read nothing all his life or read himself into oblivion. When it comes to newspapers, he loves editorials and is not above editorializing. The readers’ page of humorous magazines was expressly invented for him. He is constant in his inconstancy. In the government, he is an official for special matters or the like. If he is an instructor, he instructs literature. He will rarely work his way up to the rank of state councilor, but if he should reach that highest of ranks in our civil service he turns into a phlegmatic man, sometimes even a choleric one. Freeloaders, crooks, and beer-swillers are sanguine individuals. Sleeping in the same room as the sanguine man is not to be recommended as he will tell jokes all night, and, when he has run out of jokes, will begin criticizing his friends or telling lies. He succumbs to illnesses of the digestive system and premature exhaustion.

The sanguine woman is quite bearable, so long as she is not a fool.

The Choleric Man. He is bilious and sports a sallow complexion. His nose is somewhat crooked, and his eyes circle in their sockets like hungry wolves in cramped cages. He is irritable. Bitten by a flea or pricked by a needle, he is ready to blow the world to kingdom come. Every time he speaks it is with a spray of spittle, and he bares teeth that are either brown or very white. He is convinced that it is always “cold as hell” in winter and “hot as hell” in summer. He hires and fires cooks every week. When he dines, he complains that everything is either overcooked or too salty. Most choleric men are bachelors, but if they do marry they keep their wives under lock and key. He is jealous as the devil. He has no sense of humor, and everything annoys him. He only reads newspapers so he can swear at journalists—when still in his mother’s womb, he was already convinced that all newspapers lie. As a husband or friend he is unbearable; as a subordinate, obsequious; as a boss, insufferable and in everyone’s way. More often than not, unfortunately, he is a pedagogue, teaching mathematics and ancient Greek. I do not advocate sleeping in the same room with him, as he will cough and spit all night and swear loudly at the fleas. If he hears a hen cackling or a cock crowing in the middle of the night he will clear his throat, and, in a rasping voice, call for his servant to climb onto the roof, seize the creature, and wring its damned neck. He dies of a lung or liver ailment.

The choleric woman is a devil in a dress, a crocodile.

The Phlegmatic Man. A most agreeable individual (needless to say I am not referring to British phlegmatics, but Russian ones). He is quite unremarkable in appearance, and somewhat ungainly. He is always serious, because he is too lazy to laugh. He will eat anything and at any time. He does not drink because he is afraid of fits, and sleeps twenty hours a day. He sits on every possible committee and is to be found at every meeting and emergency session but is at a loss about what is going on, and dozes off without a twinge of conscience, patiently waiting for the meeting to end. At the age of thirty, with the assistance of uncles and aunts, he marries. He is the most suitable person for marriage: he agrees with everything, never grumbles, and is completely complacent. He calls his wife “sweetheart.” He loves suckling pig with horseradish, all things sour, choral music, and the cool shade. The phrase vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas9 (nonsense of nonsenses, and all is nonsense) was coined with the phlegmatic man in mind. He only falls ill when he is called upon to serve as a juror. When he sees a portly woman he wheezes, begins fidgeting, and attempts to smile. He has a subscription to Niva, but is peeved that they do not color their pictures and have no funny articles. He considers writers extremely clever, but at the same time extremely dangerous. He laments that his children are not whipped at school, but is himself at times not averse to giving them a good hiding. He is happy in the civil service. In an orchestra he is the contrabass, bassoon, or trombone; in a theater the cashier, doorman, or prompter—and at times, pour manger, an actor. He ultimately falls victim to paralysis or dropsy.

The phlegmatic woman is a hefty, pop-eyed, flour-white German woman of means prone to tears. She calls to mind a sack of flour. She is born to become a mother-in-law, a condition toward which she strives.

The Melancholic Man. Gray-blue eyes, brimming with tears. There are deep lines on his forehead and on either side of his nose. His mouth is somewhat crooked, his teeth black. He inclines to hypochondria, forever complaining of a pain in the pit of his stomach, a stitch in his side, and weak digestion. His favorite pastime is to stand before a mirror eyeing his limp tongue. He believes his lungs are weak and that he is suffering from a nervous condition, and consequently drinks herbal potions instead of tea, and elixir of life instead of vodka. With sorrow and in a faltering voice, he informs those near and dear to him that laurel tinctures and valerian drops are not availing. He feels that it would not be amiss to take a purgative once a week. He long ago decided that doctors do not understand him. Faith healers and healeresses, quacks, drunken field medics, and sometimes midwives give him succor. He dons a heavy winter coat in September and only takes it off in May. He suspects rabies in every dog, and ever since a friend informed him that a cat is capable of suffocating a sleeping man, he sees in every feline an implacable enemy of mankind. He drew up his will long ago. He swears by God and the Holy Bible that he never touches alcohol, but from time to time will imbibe warm beer. He marries a destitute orphan. If he does have a mother-in-law, he idealizes her as the epitome of brilliance and wisdom, listening to her pontifications with rapture, his head tilted to the side. Kissing her plump, clammy hands, redolent of sour pickles, he considers to be the holiest of duties. He pursues an active correspondence with uncles, aunts, his godmother, and childhood friends. He doesn’t read newspapers: he used to read The Moscow Daily, but as he felt his stomach constricting, his heart racing, and his eyes glazing over, he gave it up. He secretly reads Auguste Debay and Jozan de Saint-André’s books on conjugal hygiene. When the plague descended on Vetlyansk he devoutly resolved to fast five times. He is beset by nightmares and fits of weeping. He is not particularly happy in the civil service, and never rises above the rank of a minor section chief. He likes singing the old folk song “Luchinushka.” In an orchestra, he is the flute or the violoncello. He sighs night and day, which is why I advise against sleeping in the same room with him. He foretells floods, earthquakes, wars, the moral decline of mankind, and his own death from some agonizing illness. He dies of heart disease, cures administered by faith healers, and often of hypochondria.

The melancholic woman is the most unbearable and fretful of creatures. As a wife, she drives her husband to desperation and suicide. The one good thing is that it is not difficult to get rid of her: give her some money and she will set off on a pilgrimage.

The Choleric-Melancholic Man. In his early years he is a sanguine youth, but the instant a black cat crosses his path or the devil clouts him on the head, he turns into a choleric-melancholic individual. I am speaking of my illustrious Moscow neighbor, the exalted editor of the Zritel magazine. Ninety-nine percent of our Slavophile nationalists are choleric-melancholics, as are all unacknowledged poets, pater patriae, Jupiters, unacknowledged Demosthenes, and cuckolded husbands. Choleric-melancholic men are all those who are weakest in body but strongest in voice.

8 Latin: “cure like with like.” [Translator]

9 “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” [Translator]