Little Apples

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.