Little Apples

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!”

“M-Masha . . . I want to go home. Call a cab.”

“All right then! But walk down that lane in a straight line, and I’ll walk a little ways back. I can’t afford to be seen with you in this state. In a straight line! ”

The lady points the man who is not even her husband toward the exit and gives him a slight push. He moves forward quickly, tottering, bumping into people and chairs. The lady walks some distance behind him, watching him carefully. She is mortified and on edge.

“Walking sticks, fine walking sticks!” a man with a bundle of sticks and canes called out to the gentleman. “First-rate walking sticks, hickory, bamboo!”

The gentleman looked foolishly at the peddler and turned back, stumbling in the opposite direction, an expression of horror on his face.

“Where in heaven’s name do you think you’re going?” the lady said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Tell me, where?”

“Where is Masha? M-Masha’s gone . . .”

“And who am I, if not Masha?”

The lady took the gentleman under the arm and led him toward the exit. She was embarrassed.

“May God strike me down if I will ever be seen in public with you again,” she mumbled, her face flushed with shame. “This is the last time I will put up with a spectacle of this kind. May God punish me . . . tomorrow I’m going straight back to Pavel Ivanich!” The lady raised her eyes timidly to the people all around, expecting to be met with mocking laughter. But all she saw were drunken faces, nodding heads, and stumbling revelers.

She was relieved.