Little Apples

THE VAUDEVILLIAN

Ivan Akimovich Sparrov-Falkonov, a vaudevillian, thrust his hands into the pockets of his wide trousers, turned to face the window, and fixed his languid eyes on the house across the street. Five minutes of silence ensued.

“How tiresome!” Maria Andreyevna, an ingénue, said with a yawn. “Why don’t you say something, Ivan Akimovich? You drop in to see me and keep me from learning my lines, so at least say something! How intolerable you are, I must—”

“Well . . . umm . . . there is something I would like to ask you, but . . . how shall I put it? If I just blurt it out, like some lout, well, you would laugh at me . . . No, I will not speak! I will hold my tongue!”

“I wonder what he wants to ask me?” the ingénue thought. “How agitated he is, and that strange glint in his eye, and how he keeps shuffling from one foot to the other . . . He’s not going to declare his love, is he? Oh, what fools men are! Yesterday the first violin proposed, today the raisonneur spent the whole rehearsal sighing—boredom has driven them all insane!”

The vaudevillian left the window and walked over to the dressing table, where he eyed the nail clippers and jars of rouge.

“Well . . . um . . . you see, I want to ask you something, but I am afraid . . . I feel so awkward. If I blurt it out just like that you will say: ‘The boor! The peasant!’ I know you so well, Maria Andreyevna! No, I will hold my tongue!”

“But what should I say to him if he really does declare his love?” the ingénue pondered. “He’s a good enough man, well-known, talented, but, well, I really don’t like him. He isn’t much to look at, his shoulders droop—and what about those warts on his face? His voice is shrill, and those mannerisms! No! Never!”

The vaudevillian began pacing up and down the room in silence. He slumped heavily into an armchair, and noisily snatched up a newspaper lying on the table. His eyes darted over the pages as if they were looking for something. They stopped on one of the smudged letters and sagged.

“If only there were some flies buzzing around!” he grumbled. “That would at least brighten things up a little.”

“If you think about it, his eyes aren’t that bad,” the ingénue mused. “But the best thing about him, I suppose, is his character. After all, the soul and mind of a man are far more important than his looks. Well . . . I could see myself married to him, but living with him without a ring is absolutely out of the question! How he looked at me just now! Obviously his senses are inflamed! But why is he so timid? I simply don’t understand!”

The vaudevillian sighed deeply and smacked his lips. His silence was clearly weighing heavily on him. He turned red as a lobster. His mouth twisted to the side. There was a look of anguish on his face.

“Well, do I really need a ring?” the ingénue mused. “He does earn a good salary, and living with him would be better than living with some roughneck of a sea captain. Fine! I will tell him that I’m prepared to live with him! Why hurt the poor man’s feelings by turning him down? His life is hard enough as it is.”

“No! I must speak!” the vaudevillian spluttered, rising from the armchair and throwing the newspaper aside. “I can’t control my damned nature! I can’t hold back! Beat me, curse me if you will, Maria Andreyevna, but I must speak!”

“Speak! Speak, for heaven’s sake!”

“Maria Andreyevna, my dear, sweet Maria Andreyevna! I beg you . . . I beseech you, I implore you on bended knee . . .”

The vaudevillian’s eyes filled with tears.

“For goodness’ sake! Speak!”

“Tell me, my sweet Maria Andreyevna, could I . . . could I possibly have a glass of vodka, just a tiny little glass? My soul is on fire! After yesterday’s drinking bout my mouth is so oxidized, transoxidized, superoxidized, that no chemist in the world can deoxidize it! I appeal to you from the depths of my soul! I’m at the end of my tether!”