Little Apples

À L’AMÉRICAINE

I,experiencing the urgent whim to enter a thoroughly lawful marriage, and realizing that no marriage can be entered into without a female of the species, have the honor and pleasure of asking all young maidens and widows to cast a favorable eye on the following:

First and foremost, I am a man. Needless to say, this is a point of some importance to the ladies. I stand one yard and twenty-seven inches tall. I am young. Indeed, I am as far from middle age as a flock of sandpipers would be from Novosibirsk on St. Peter’s Day. I am of noble lineage. I might not be much to look at, but am not that bad either, so much so that I have been repeatedly mistaken for handsome, albeit only on moonless nights. My eyes are hazel. My cheeks (alas!) are undimpled. Two of my back teeth are rotten. I have a hard time assuming graceful manners, but no one should doubt the strength of my muscles. (My glove size is 7¾.) I have nothing to my name but my poor though wellborn parents. I do, however, have an illustrious future before me. I am a devotee of pretty women in general and parlor maids in particular. I believe in everything. I am a man of letters—so much so that I am above shedding tears when rejection slips come pouring in. I see a novel in my future, whose heroine (a wanton but exquisite beauty) will be modeled on my wife-to-be. I sleep twelve hours a night. I eat mountains of food. I drink vodka only in company. I have a commendable circle of friends: I know two literati, a ditty-writer, and two men about town who have dedicated their lives to the betterment of mankind by writing articles for The Russian Gazette. My favorite poets are Pushkarev and, at times, myself. I am amorous, but not in the least jealous. I wish to marry for reasons known only to myself and my creditors. That, in a nutshell, is who I am!

Now as to what I am looking for in a wife. She must be either a maiden or a widow, whichever she prefers, not older than thirty nor younger than fifteen. She must not be Catholic—in other words not one of those women who believe that there is such a thing as a man who is infallible—and definitely not a Jewess. A Jewess would never tire of badgering me: “Oy, is that all those magazines are paying you for a line? You should go to my papa and learn one or two things about making rubles!” I would not like that. I would like a blonde with blue eyes and, please, if at all possible, dark eyebrows. She must not be pale, flushed, thin, plump, tall, or squat, but pleasant, and not possessed by demons, or have her hair cut short, or be garrulous, or never want to go anywhere.

She must have good handwriting, because I need someone to copy out my pieces. Not that there’s much to copy out.

She must love the magazines I write for, and follow the mode of life they advocate.

She must not read The Playful Tattler, The New Daily, or that dreadful book Nana, and she should not be moved by the feature articles of The Moscow News, or swoon at the poetry that keeps appearing in Berega.

She must be able to sing, dance, read, write, boil, roast, fry, be sweet and tender, grill (but without raking me over the coals), be good at borrowing money for her husband, have a knack for dressing elegantly using her own financial resources (N.B.!), and be absolutely obedient.

She must not niggle, hiss, squawk, yell, bite, bare her teeth, throw plates, or bat her eyelashes at friends of the family.

It is important that she remember that horns do not adorn a man’s head, and that the shorter they are the safer is he who will be made to pay for them.

She must not be called Matryonna, Akulina, Avdoteya, or other such provincial names, but have a nobler name, such as Olya, Lenochka, Maruska, Katya, Lipa.

She must at all times keep her dear mama, my highly esteemed mother-in-law, well away from me, somewhere at the back of beyond, otherwise I cannot be held accountable for my actions, and—

She must have a minimum of two hundred thousand rubles in silver.

This stipulation, however, is negotiable at the discretion of my creditors.